I gets to my feet, but my legs ain’t very strong. I says:
“Lemme a-alone. I don’t want no man’s wife’s love—especially one what hauls me home by the ankle. When I git married I want a clingin’ vine—not a pile driver.”
I never did have much sense. A feller in my condition ought to keep his mouth shut and sneak away soft-like. I turns my head toward the door, and just then the weight of the world hit me from behind, and it was a lucky thing for that house that the door was open.
I landed on my hands and knees in the yard, with all the wind knocked out of my system. Wick has got some rose-bushes in his yard. Like a animal wounded unto death, I reckon I tried to crawl around on my hands and knees to find a spot to die in.
All to once I sees one of them ⸺ sheep. It’s only a short distance from me. I know if I move it’s going to hit me sure as ⸺ so I remains still. I’ll bet that me and the sheep never moved a muscle for fifteen minutes.
Then all at once the sheep spoke.
“For ⸺’s sake, if you’re goin’ to butt—butt and have it over with!”
I got to my feet.
“Get up, Dirty Shirt Jones,” says I. “What kind of a way is that to act?”
Dirty weaves to his feet and stumbles over to me.