Into our rosy existence cometh “Big Foot” Benson and “Hoodoo” Harris. Them two pelicans proclaims it open season on anything that comes in bottles.
“You’re a danged queer-looking pair,” says Big Foot, “but it takes all kinds of folks to herd sheep. Klahowya.”
“Your whiskers ain’t orthodox,” says Hoodoo, peering at Dirty, “or has you reverted to the reptiles and sheds your skin in the hot days?”
“We’re scientists,” says Dirty, “and we’re lookin’ for a dinny-sor.”
“Oh, yeah,” says Hoodoo. “Well, you come to the right place, gents. The Lord knows you can find anything here, except a square deal. Why does you cover your eyes with gloomy glasses thataway? Does you hanker for the dark side of life?”
“Yuh never could find a dinny-sor with the naked eye,” says I, and they accepts the verdict.
That was one wild night for science. I reckon every puncher within fifty miles showed up for the celebration, being as there’s prizes offered, and me and Dirty, after absorbing considerable cheer, has a hard time sticking to plain science.
Dirty had a fight with Mighty Jones, when the two of ’em gets to discussing whether man came from monkey or not. Mighty debates that they are, and offers Dirty as a living proof. Two sheep-herders from over on Medicine Creek, cries on my neck and calls me “brother,” and I licked ’em both.
Yes, it sure was a regular evening and my throat was raw from trying to change my natural voice and talk like a scientist ought to talk. Dirty Shirt’s whiskers tried to crawl under his chin several times, but the crowd was too joyful to pay any attention to whiskers.
Somehow I can’t just remember what happened after midnight, except that Waldemar corrals me and tells me to pull off the stunt at ten o’clock. He explains the details, but I only hears half of it, ’cause Hoodoo is trying to tell me something about a mosquito that bit him when he was at the North Pole.