They got under the bunk, all right. Four of ’em! All muddy and sloppy and full of affection, and they sure licked Ike Harper’s face around and around, upside down and crossways. They guzzled in my ears and rubbed noses with me, and I had to take it. After my bath they seems to sort of quiet down, and I hears what the men are saying.
“No; the kid’s all right,” states somebody. “Maybe it’s hungry.”
“Poor little Oscar!” squeaks some feller. “Lemme see him, Zeb. I ain’t never see him.”
“Sure thing, Otie. Never seen Oscar, eh?”
Comes a shuffling of feet, somebody clears their throat, and then silence. Even them danged hounds seem to feel the silence. Then I hears somebody clear their throat apologetic-like and say:
“Mister, I—I—we begs your pardon. Take that rope off him, Abe. Your story didn’t sound like much to us; so— Well, dang it all, we’re sorry, mister. Honest to gosh we are. Ain’t we, fellers?”
“Such is Gospel,” agrees somebody else. “From now on I believes what I hears. Take your baby, old trailer, and go free as air. There ain’t nobody doubting your honesty. Our mistake.”
I hears a shuffling noise; the door shuts soft-like, and then all is silence again.
“——!” says somebody. “Don’t seem possible that it wasn’t one or the other.”
“I’m plumb glad my wife wasn’t able to come home,” states a voice, which I reckon is the father of one of my bunch. “The shock might ’a’ killed her.”