The baby keeps on playing three notes plumb across the board:
“Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!”
Pretty soon Magpie stops and sets down on the rail.
“Ike, I can’t stand this,” he wails. “We’ve got to get condensed milk for this human phonygraft, or it will ruin its lungs.”
We sets there in the dark and contemplates deep-like. Off in the distance a coyote raises its voice in protest against the bounty law, and then a cow bawls soft-like.
“My ——!” grunts Magpie prayerful-like. “Cow! Don’t they make condensed milk out of cow milk, Ike?”
“Did you think they made it out of cans?” I asks.
“Cow!” he grunted joyful-like, getting to his feet. “We’ll milk that critter, Ike.”
He picks up our painful inheritance, pilgrims down the railroad fill, and we goes in the direction of that cow’s voice. We finds said bawlers standing in the corner of a fence, and they acts inquisitive toward us.
“We ain’t got no rope, Magpie,” I objects. But he’s enthusiastic over the proposition and says: