“Hello, the house!”
“Hello the ——!” says I. “That sounds like Zeb Abernathy, Muley.”
Muley steps over and picks up the old man’s shotgun.
“Let him in, Henry,” says he. “If he comes on the prod I’ll scatter his remains to the four winds.”
I opens the door, and the old pelican bows to me like I was the fourth king in the deck to enter his hand.
“Howdy, Henry,” says he, and then he happens to see Muley with the shotgun. “I comes in sorrow not in anger,” he states, “my soul is filled with contrition.”
“As long as she’s filled with something I’ll save my buckshot,” opines Muley. “Come on in and rest your ticks, Zeb Abernathy.”
“Nice weather,” observes Zeb, mopping his face with a red handkerchief. “May rain and it may not. I kind of look for a dry spell.”
“The Weather Bureau at Washington gets but annual reports, which reach us too late, so we thanks you for the information,” says Muley.
“I hope I see you both well,” opines Zeb.