“You shore did. Both loads, dad bust yore soul—and me without no drawers on. I tries to smear yuh with my six-gun, but finds that all I’m shootin’ at is yore hat and part uh yore shirt on uh bush.”
“Say, Mighty,” sez Magpie, gittin’ around on th’ windward side of th’ ol’ jasper, “you must uh took uh bath in that Jap oil. You shore are odoriferous, ol’-timer. Whew!”
“It slopped uh li’l,” sez Mighty. Abe was ailin’ somethin’ awful over in that ol’ prospect, and I figgers that th’ doc would relieve him uh heap if I brings him over. I reads th’ epitaph on that bottle and it orates that it’s good fer cramps.
“I tries to give some to Abe but he don’t warm up to th’ smell a-tall. In fact he won’t even associate with me, and ambles ahead uh me all th’ way over. Down here uh li’l ways I manages to overhaul him and shoves th’ whole works down his blamed neck. It shore animates him uh heap, Magpie. I’m watchin’ him go spry like and loudly off into the brush, when all to oncet two loads uh bird-shot comes along and hives into th’ seat uh my pants. It riles me uh heap. I’ll leave it to you if bird-shot ain’t aggravatin’, Magpie.”
Th’ doc gits enough of th’ conversation to learn that he’s shot Mighty, and he seems uh heap concerned. He’s still hangin’ onto that tree, but he holds up his other hand and sez:
“No more, I’m through using a gun. Mister Jones, would you accept that gun as a present?”
“Now, ain’t that ——?” wails Mighty. “Ain’t it, Magpie? Here I been wantin’ uh britch loader shotgun fer years, and jist when somebody gives me one I’ve already tied th’ danged thing around uh tree so it won’t never shoot no more. Ain’t that cheerin’?”
“Well,” sez I, “lets go up to th’ cabin and see how things is shapin’ up there. I has uh feelin’ that all our good works is ravelin’ out.”
We gits almost to th’ cabin when we sees th’ perfessor. He’s settin’ on th’ ground near where th’ badger was tied to uh tree, but there ain’t no sign of th’ badger, and Abe ain’t in sight.
Th’ perfessor’s black coat is split up th’ back, and his hard hat is circlin’ his arm like uh band uh crape. There’s uh scratch th’ whole length uh his face, but he’s still grinnin’ and tryin’ to write on one leaf uh that li’l book. Th’ rest is some tore up and scattered.