“Yo’re welcome,” says th’ other party, puttin’ his finger into th’ place where his teeth used to be, and lookin’ foolish.
“Uh—hu—huh!” says a voice behind them, and there stands Art Miller.
Most of his clothes are missin’ and he’s nursin’ uh skinned elbow and leanin’ agin’ uh wheel fer support.
“What happened, driver?” asks th’ party of th’ missin’ teeth.
Art looks over th’ wreck and then back at th’ bald head stickin’ out of th’ stage.
“If it was yore eyes instead of yore teeth I might take th’ trouble to explain,” he snaps. “Take uh look and form yore own conclusions.”
“We—huh—seem to have wrecked.”
“We—huh—have!” snapped Art, and then to Sig: “What do yuh mean by stampedin’ my outfit thataway, eh? Comin’ along a-shootin’ like uh crazy half-breed!”
“Art,” says Sig, “I shore begs yore pardon if I done wrong, but I’d almost swear that I hears somebody yell ‘Hands up!’ at you, when you pulls out of th’ ford, and I comes to yore rescue. Dog-gone it all, that’s allus th’ way. When yuh tries to do uh feller uh favor he don’t appreciate it.”
Sig looks sorry fer himself and rolls uh smoke.