Part 7 (2/2)

”Now, Cupid,” says Billy, like he was goin' to scolt me.

”'R if ole man Baker 'd take the stuff and git his hearin' back.”

”No show. Nothin' but sproutin' a new ear'd help Baker.”

Next person I seen was that Doc Simpson. He was a-settin' on Silverstein's porch, teeterin' hisself in a chair. ”Billy,” I says, ”I'm goin' over to put that critter up to buyin'. He's got money and he cain't do better'n spend it.”

Wal, a-course, Simpson was turrible uppy when I first spoke to him. Said he didn't want nothin' t' say to me--not a _word_. (He had sev'ral risin's on his face yet.)

”Wal, Doc,” I says, ”I know you think I didn't treat you square, _but_--has you city fellers any idear how mad you make us folks in the country when you go a-shootin' 'round in them gasoline rigs of yourn?

Why, I think if you'll give this question some little study, you'll see it has got two sides.”

”Yas,” says the Doc, ”it _has_. But that ain't why you treated _me_ like you did. No, I ain't green enough to think _that._”

”You ain't green at _all,_” I says. ”And I'm sh.o.r.e sorry you feel the way you do. 'Cause I hoped mebbe you'd fergit our little trouble and bury the hatchet--long as we're both workin' fer the same thing.”

”What thing, I'd like t' know?”

”Why, gittin' Miss Macie Sewell elected the prettiest gal.”

Fer a bit he didn't say nothin'. Then he made some _re_mark about a gal's name bein' ”handed 'round town,” and that a votin' contest was ”vulgar.”

Wal, he put it so slick that I didn't just git the hang of what he was drivin' at. Just the same, I felt he was layin' it on to me, somehow.

And if I'd 'a' been _sh.o.r.e_ of it, I'd 'a' put some _more_ risin's on to his face.

Wisht now I had--on gen'ral principles. 'Cause, thinkin' back, I know _just_ what he done. If he didn't, why was him and that Root-ee Judge talkin' t'gether so long at the door of Silverstein's Hall--talkin'

like they was thick, and laughin', and ev'ry oncet in a while lookin' over at me?

I drummed up a lot of votes that afternoon. Got holt of Buckshot Milliken, who wasn't feelin' more'n ordinary good. Ast him how he was. He put his hand to his belt, screwed up his mug, and said he felt plumb et up inside.

”Buckshot,” I says, ”anybody else 'd give you that ole sickenin'

story about it bein' the nose-paint you swallered last night. Reckon you' wife's tole you that a'ready.”

”That's what she has,” growls Buckshot.

”Wal, _I_ knowed it! But is she _right?_ Now, _I_ think, Buckshot,--I think you've got the bliggers.” (Made it up on the spot.)

”The bliggers!” he says, turrible scairt-like.

”That's what I think. But all you need is that Root-ee they sell over yonder.”

He perked up. ”Sh.o.r.e of it?” he ast.

”Buy a bottle and try. And leave off drinkin' anythin' else whilst you're takin' the stuff, so's it can have a fair chanst. In a week, you'll be a new man.”

”I'll do it,” he says, makin' fer that prairie-schooner.

I calls after him: ”And say, Buckshot, ev'ry two dollars you spend with them people, you git the right to put in ten votes fer the prettiest gal. Now, most of us is votin' fer ole man Sewell's youngest daughter.” Then, like I was tryin' hard to recollect, ”I _think_ her name is Macie.”

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