“Yeah, but I’m mean drunk, Magpie. There ain’t nothin’ flowery about me. I ain’t in no mood to wish whoopin’ cough nor violets on mine enemies. Let’s go.”
“Sufferin’ sun-fish!” grunts Magpie. “Look at Rip Van Winkle.”
“It’s me—Tellurium,” says the apparition. “Don’t I look it?”
He sure did. He’s got a old bear-skin overcoat on, and about three strings of sleigh-bells around his waist. He’s got a stove-pipe hat on his head and on his chin is a bunch of whiskers made from the tail of a white horse. Personally, I think he’s the dangest-looking thing I ever saw.
“Well,” says Magpie, “you sure look it, Tellurium, but I’m danged if I know what you do look like.”
“Sandy Claws,” says Tellurium, proud-like. “I’m him. Come up to show you what can be done when you’ve got the ambition.”
“Sandy Claws?” says Magpie. “No, no Tellurium. Sandy Claws don’t look like that. What do yuh want to do—scare folks? You look like a cross between a item of natural hist’ry and a smallpox germ.”
“I comes into the program as a sort of special thing,” says Tellurium.
“No,” says Magpie, “not into my program, Tellurium. You better go out and scare coyotes with that outfit. I ain’t using no Sandy Clawses anyway.”
“I’ve went to a lot of trouble,” complains Tellurium.