"Speakin' o' my third wife's half brother," Single broke out, at last.
"What kind o' fambly was that?" interrupted the sour puncher. "Thirds, an' halfs, an' things. Sounds more like 'rithmetic than a fambly."
"It was harder'n 'rithmetic," Single replied darkly. "This here half brother o' my wife's was a Cognowaga" (Caughnawaga).
"Gee, what a fambly!" groaned the other, but Single did not heed him.
"An' his name was Sam Sharp," Single went on. "'Course that wasn't his real name. He was a sportin' gent, an' that was his sportin' name. He was one o' them all-round fellers. Run! Say, he c'd make a jack-rabbit look like a fly in a tub o' butter. He c'd jump higher'n this here roof, an' vault twic't as high. An' them big shots an' weights that they put—I'd hate t' tell you how far he c'd put 'em. You wouldn't b'lieve me."
"We don't b'lieve you, anyhow," muttered one of the boys, but Single didn't seem to hear. He was wrapped up in his story.
"He'd throw th' discus from here down t' th' corral."
"What's a discus?" asked a puncher.