“Never mind, my dear,” consoles th’ perfessor. “My contention is proved, and we can leave at once. We’ll adjust matters with our employees and go home.”
“What about th’ snake theory, Perfessor?” I asks.
“Do they or don’t they?” he asks, haulin’ out th’ remains uh that li’l book.
“They don’t,” sez I. “They never have and never will.”
“At least I can point with pride to the fact that I hit something,” remarks th’ doc with uh grin, when he gits on his burro and lights another one uh them stinkin’ rolls. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a rifle, I might have killed a bear.”
“If yuh can see this far, and sabe th’ direction, yuh might point with pride to th’ fact that I can’t set down fer uh week,” orates Mighty.
“Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “would yuh mind tellin’ me jist edzactly what competent means?”
Th’ perfessor adjusts th’ remains uh that hard hat on his peaked head, and squints at Magpie over th’ top uh them funereal-rimmed glasses. “Why,—er—it means, adequate or sufficient.”
“Thanks,” sez Magpie. “It shore is and we have had. Adios.”
“It stands to reason—” begins Magpie, as th’ caravan goes off down th’ trail, with Mrs. Perfessor’s burro squeakin’ and groanin’ at th’ rear, but Mighty ceases scratchin’ long enough to snort: