“That paper must ’a’ printed some truths about folks,” I opines, and Magpie grins:
“You said something, Ike. He sure did ride folks. Yuh ought to see what he said about Paradise folks. I reckon they’re just about starting to boil over down there.”
“Didn’t you print yours right soon, Magpie?” I asks. “Seems to me that it’s a weekly.”
“Uh-huh—comes out on Friday. Yuh see I had to change that day right off the reel, ’cause if I had any hangings to attend to it would interfere with the paper. I looks into the future, Ike.”
“Well,” says I, “it don’t make much difference now, being as the ink is all gone.”
“That’s so. I wish you’d ’a’ stayed there and ’tended to business, Ike.”
“And got all inked up, eh? I never did have any luck, and if it had ’a’ been me somebody would ’a’ come in and helped Cactus find that paste jar. Too bad the show got busted up thataway.”
“Uh-huh,” yawns Magpie. “We ain’t had a good show for a long time, but I don’t admire a show what depends on three dogs and eight cakes of ice. Let’s hit the hay.”
That night somebody comes down and paints a skull and cross bones on our door, and it makes Magpie sore.
“I’m commencing to get riled internally, Ike,” he states, when he views said works of art. “You go back and hold down the newspaper, and in a little while I’ll show yuh the scalp of this artist. Rustle around and see if there’s any ink left.