“I’ll give yuh ten dollars for it,” squeaks Scenery Sims. “I’d give uh ten just to own uh thing like that.”
“The —— yuh would!” snorts Half Mile. “I’ll give fifteen.”
“Fifteen—fifteen—fifteen,” chants Chuck. “Who’ll give twenty?”
“I’ll make it twenty,” yells Ricky Henderson.
“Poultry’s going up!” whoops Chuck, standing up in his stirrups.
“Who’ll give Ricky uh raise?”
“I makes it worth thirty,” states the judge.
“Forty!” yelps Tellurium.
“Whoa!” whoops Chuck. “Wait uh minute. What’s the idea uh getting all heated up over uh overgrown fool-hen on stilts. First thing we knows there’ll be sorrow in our city. I got uh good scheme. I’ll make a hundred tickets at five dollars each, and raffle the blamed thing. You fellers can gamble your heads off if yuh feels inclined.”
That seems to suit the crowd, so Chuck puts the bird in Buck Masterson’s stable, and him and some of the rest gets busy on making tickets.