“Yes,” says Dirty. “It is such things that help to make us crazy.”
Maybe I could tell more of this tale; maybe not. Professor Pettingill knows things that I don’t, so I’d let him tell the rest of the tale as he told it to his friends. Folks, meet Professor Pettingill, who is now going to talk.
Mr. Harper’s tale, up to the present, is partly true, or as Dirty Shirt says, “Near the truth as Ike ever told anything.” I objected to the word “pelican” as applied to Professor Middleton and myself, but Ike assured me that it was a term of endearment, so I will let it remain.
Many of their quaint phrases are in my note-book, but as yet I have not had time to investigate their meaning. Their vocabulary of profanity seemed unlimited, and at times very amusing. It seems that they had little reverence for the finer things of life, and when we gently remonstrated with them, the one called Dirty Shirt said:
“Oh, go to ——! What do you think this is—a ladies’ cemetery?”
I as yet fail to see the reference to a burial-place.
As Mr. Harper has already told you, we sat on the slope of the hill and watched the outlaws purloin part of the flock. I believe that my ancestors were fighting-stock, for my gorge arose at the sight, and I was filled with visions of revenge. Perhaps it was the spirit of the West that possessed me, but at any rate I arose and shook a folded fist in their direction.
“Go ahead and cuss, professor,” said Dirty Shirt. “If you get stuck for a word, maybe me or Ike can supply it.”
Now, I am going to make no attempt to quote them. At times they talk in academic English, and at other times a jargon. Professor Middleton will bear me out in saying that their language is both weird and wonderful, and also easy to acquire.
I am sure that our friends were shocked at our conversation when we related our experiences, and it required constant vigilance over our tongues to keep from—as Ike said—“talking like a he-man.” I feel that Middleton was a worse offender than I in that respect.