The house shakes with the concussion and Buck drops uh glass he’s been polishing for ten minutes. He looks under the bar, and gasps—
“My riot-gun!”
We sets there and looks at each other for uh minute, and then the judge runs his fingers painful like through his hair, and orates in uh peevish, wailing tone—
“Well, dang it all, send for uh doctor or uh coroner.”
Somebody starts to get both when the door flies open and in walks Chuck. He ambles the length of the room and slams the shotgun down on the bar.
“——!” he snorts, “I shot its crop all to ——!”
“Is—is it dead?” quavers the judge.
“I don’t know, Judge,” replies Chuck, weary like. “It was when I left.”
“What’d yuh shoot it for?” asks Scenery.
“It ate up all that raffle money—dang its hide! Now, I shot the treasury all to flinders.”