“You got any sheep?” I asks.
Wick sets up straight and glares at me.
“Sheep? I’m a merchant—not a shepherd!”
“Wool is good for rheumatism,” says I, offhand-like, trying to smooth over my mistake.
“If you’re looking for a married man with money you sure got into the wrong pew, Mister Smith,” states Muley.
“Zeb told me that you had an aunt—” begins Wick, wise-like, and then:
“Squr-r-r-r-reek! Meo-o-o-o-o-ow! Yip, yip, yip!”
First comes Amelia. She’s traveling so blamed fast that she looks like a string of about six cats. Right behind her comes that coyote pup, digging deep into his soul for joyful sounds, and behind him, screeching and screaming comes Alfred, and they invades the parlor.
Wick hops to his feet as they enters, and of course he’s the highest point in the room. A cat will always hit for elevation—therefore Wick got Amelia. Me and Muley sort of draws back to keep the score, but things happens too fast for computation. Amelia draws all four feet together in Wick’s scalp, the same of which makes Wick wrinkle up his face, and forget the rheumatism in his legs. The bird and the coyote don’t do much except cut circles until Wick starts, blind-like to leave there, and falls over a chair.
Wick turns over once, lands on his hands and knees, and pilgrims out of the door, with the cat prospecting his dandruff, Alfred hopping up and down on his back, and the coyote pup hanging on to his coattails, and skidding along, making little snappy barks of delight.