“I don’t know. Why the question?”
“That letter specifies ‘natural lifetime.’ That’s the joker.”
“Did it say that?”
“Sure did. Wait, I’ll show you.” He fumbles around in his pockets for a while, and then looks foolish-like at me: “The front half of that letter is gone, Henry! Now, where in thunder did I drop that?”
He hunts some more but his pockets don’t essay a trace.
“Har, har, har! Way ’round ’em, Shep!” shrieks Alfred, and Muley kicks the cage off the porch.
“Shut up! You cross between a duck and a phonygraph! You ain’t yelped nothing but sheep-talk since I got you. No wonder Aunt Agnes died—she must have had ticks!”
“You ain’t showing proper respect for the dead, Muley,” I reminds him.
“Is that so!” he yelps. “Is that so! Well, dog-gone it, Hen, she didn’t show no respect for the living when she shipped me these trinkets, did she? Sending a puncher a sheep-talking buzzard ain’t showing a whole lot of respect. That cat is so old I’ll have to feed it on a bottle, and—”
“Sheep dip!” screams Alfred. “Who’s crazy?”