“We do,” agrees Dirty. “Oh, we shore do. The present one is a shame and a disgrace. I’m doin’ my part, ain’t I? They’re rafflin’ off my autymobile.”
“Will the danged thing run?” I asks.
“Shore will. It’s got gas’line in her, and all you’ve got to do is twist the crank. Run? My Gawd, that thing’ll rear right up and paw the sky. Stands me five hundred on the hoof right now. They’re goin’ to put planks on the Mint Hall stairs and run her into the hall, where all may gaze upon same.”
“And I’ve donated Araby,” says Scenery, grabbin’ for the bottle.
“They ain’t goin’ to raffle that thing, are they?”
“They shore ain’t! Raffle Araby? Huh! Nossir, they ain’t. I dunno what they want Araby for, but I’ve done made the loan to Magpie and Testament. I reckon the camule is part of the entertainment. I hope he don’t eat an arm off somebody—unless they’re from Yaller Horse or Paradise.”
I stayed all night with them two public spirited men, and the next day I’m so filled with remorse that I almost got religion. Along about midnight Dirty went out to git some wood, forgot to shut the door, when he came back, and when I woke up in the mornin’ I had one frozen ear.
I asked Magpie what the performance was to be, and he asked me if I knew what Christmas was all about. I said it was a time when folks traded shirts, as far as I could understand. He said for me to attend, and I’d learn what it was about. I told him I thought I would, bein’ as it had already cost me twenty dollars. I went down to Paradise that afternoon, and almost froze my other ear. Paradise town is about the same size as Piperock, but if all their morals were laid end to end you’d have to use calipers and a magnifyin’ glass to measure ’em.
I finds Tombstone Todd, Hair Oil Heppner and Hip Shot Harris over from Yaller Horse, and if there ever was an unholy trinity, these are it. Tombstone tries to question me a lot about our festivities, but I don’t respond very much, ’cause I don’t know enough about it myself.