The Color of His Boots

by W. C. Tuttle

“Yes’m,” says Magpie. “All three of em are.”

The feller nods and spits out into the rain.

“Milk,” states Magpie. “Milk for the babies.”

“Beebus?” he asks. “Skilloffvizzmffovitch?”

Then he stepped back into the room.

“I didn’t know you could talk Russian, Magpie,” says I.

“Lot of things you don’t know, Ike. Now we’ll get the——”

Comes a lot of charged language and couple of squalls, and here comes Bushy-Face with a squalling infant on each arm. He stops in the doorway, and his haystack whiskers open in a wide grin.

“Zoffuffzizzovitckski,” says he proud-like.

“Don’t mention it,” says Magpie foolish-like. “You’re welcome as the flowers in May.”