“Ike, I’m glad to see yuh back,” says he. “When did yuh get back?”
“Today. Are you the reception committee?”
“Me? Nope. I’m an enraged citizen, Ike. I mistook yuh for the editor.”
“No mistake, Dirty, I’m him.”
Of course I got that .41 in my hands when I makes that statement, and Dirty don’t make no demonstration.
“Take it easy,” I advises. “I ain’t the one you’re sore at. Magpie is the regular editor but he’s down at the jail.”
Dirty chaws for a few seconds, and hitches up his pants:
“Much obliged, Ike. Sorry I licked yuh thataway. Yuh see that paper orates that the population ought to get sanitary—whatever that is. He states that a dirty shirt designates a shepherd—dang his hide! Well, Ike, I gives yuh good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon ain’t much to give a man after you’ve give him ——,” I opines. “But I’ll take it, Dirty, old-timer. I reckon I’ll need everything I can get before I goes to press.”
I sets there and complains bitterly to myself about folks who don’t keep up to date on news, wipes the worst of the ink off my face, and goes back to sleep.