Yes, this was about the time I got interested in the bettin’ barber
over at Boggs. He hasn’t anything to do with this story I’m about to
tell ya, except that it was him ’at give the Friar his name; so I’ll
just skim through this part as hasty as possible. When a feller is
tellin’ me a story, I want him to stick to the trail of it; but it
seems like when I try to tell one, myself, some feller is allus askin’
me a question ’at takes me clear out o’ range.
All barbers are more or less different, except in what might be called
the gift o’ gab. This one came out to Boggs station, an’ started a
shop. His name was Eugene, an’ he was a little man with two rollin’
curls to his front hair, which he wore short behind. A curious thing
about little men is, that they don’t never find it out. A little man
produces more opinions ’n airy other kind, an’ being small, they
haven’t no place to store ’em up until they get time to ripen. A
little man gives out his opinion an’ then looks savage—just as if
he’d get a switch an’ make ya believe it, whether you wanted to or
not.
Eugene had come from every city the’ is in the world, an’ he used to
tell scandalous tales about the prominent people who lived in ’em
whose hair he had cut. He was also familiar with the other things
which had happened since they’ve begun to write history, an’ if any
one would doubt one of his statements, he’d whirl about holding up his
razor, an’ say: “I’ll bet ya a dollar I can prove it.”
All of us fellers used to go in as often as we got a chance to get our
chins shaved an’ our hair shampooed—just to hear Eugene get indignant
about things which wasn’t none of our business. We used to bet with
him a lot, just for the fun o’ makin’ him prove up things; which he
did by writin’ letters to somebody an’ gettin’ back the answers he
wanted. We didn’t have any way to prove our side; so Eugene got the
money an’ we had the fun.
Ol’ man Dort ran the general store and kept a pet squirrel in a
whirlabout cage, which was the biggest squirrel I ever see, an’ had
its tail gnawed off by a rat, or something, before Eugene came. Ol’
man Dort had a reputation for arguin’, which spread all over our part
of the earth. We had made a habit o’ goin’ to him to get our
discussions settled an’ when we began to pass him up for Eugene, he
foamed about it free an’ frank.
He wore a prodigious tangle o’ hair and a bunch o’ grizzled whiskers,
about as fine an’ smooth as a clump o’ grease-wood. He used to brag
that razor nor scissors hadn’t touched his hide for twenty years, an’
one of us boys would allus add, “Nor soap nor water, neither,” an’ ol’
man Dort would grin proud, ’cause it was a point of honor with him.
Eugene used to send out for his wearin’ an’ sech, so ol’ man Dort
didn’t get a whack at him in his store; ol’ man Dort batched, an’
Eugene boarded, so they didn’t clash up at their meals; an’ finally
ol’ man Dort swore a big oath that he was goin’ to be barbered. The
news got out an’ the boys came in for forty miles to see the fun—an’
it was worth it.
We went early to the shop an’ planted ourselves, lookin’ solemn an’
not sayin’ anything to put Eugene on his guard. When at last ol’ man
Dort hove in sight with his brows scowled down an’ his jaws set under
his shrubbery, we all bit our lips; an’ Eugene stopped tellin’ us
about the hair-roots o’ the Prince of Wales, an’ stood lookin’ at ol’
man Dort with his mouth gapped wide open.
The ol’ man came in, shut the door careful behind him, glared at
Eugene, as though darin’ him to do his worst, an’ said: “I want my
hair shamped, an’ my whiskers shaved off.”
“If you expected to get it all done in one day, you should ought to
have come earlier,” sez Eugene soberly, but tossin’ us a side wink.
“Well, you do as much as you can to-day, an’ we’ll finish up
to-morrow,” sez ol’ man Dort, not seein’ the joke.
Ol’ man Dort peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, an’ climbed
into the chair as if he thought it was liable to buck him off. Then he
settled back with a grunt, an’ Eugene tucked the bib in around his
neck, combed his fingers through ol’ man Dort’s hair a minute, an’
sez; “Your hair’s startin’ to come out. You should ought to use a
tonic.”
“Tonic, hell!” snaps the ol’ man. “My hair sheds out twice a year,
same as the rest o’ the animals.”
“Then you should ought to comb it,” sez Eugene. “I’ve got some hair
here in my hand which was shed out two years ago. Leavin’ dead hair
an’ such rubbish as that layin’ around on your scalp is what kills the
hair globules.”
“It don’t either; it acts like fertilizer, the same as dead grass
does,” sez ol’ man Dort. He had made up his mind to take the contrary
side of everything ’at Eugene said, an’ it was more fun than a dog
fight.
Eugene started in by mowin’ away the whiskers, an’ it was a long an’
painful job; ’cause it was almost impossible to tell where they left
off an’ ol’ man Dort began, an’ then they was so cluttered up with
grit an’ dead hair and kindry deb-ris that his scissors would choke up
an’ pull, an’ then ol’ man Dort would bob up his head an’ yell out a
bunch o’ profanity, and Eugene would stand back an’ say that he was a
barber, not a clearer of new ground, an’ that the job ought to be done
with a scythe and hoe, not with scissors an’ razor. Eugene wasn’t
covetous of ol’ man Dort’s trade an’ didn’t care whether he insulted
him or not.
The most fun came, though, after Eugene had got down to where he could
tell the outline of ol’ man Dort’s face. First he soaked it with
lather, combin’ it in with a comb, an’ puttin’ hot towels on it to
draw out the alkalie grit an’ give his razors some show.
One of ol’ man Dort’s manias was, that a man ought to pay his debts,
whether it killed him or not; so as soon as Eugene had him steamin’
under the towels we begun to talk about a man’s first duty bein’
toward his kin, an’ that if he couldn’t pay his debts without bother,
he ought to let the debts go an’ show his relatives a good time while
they was still on earth an’ able to enjoy themselves.
Ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it, an’ tried to answer back from under
the towels; but got his mouth full o’ suds, an’ choked on the corner
of a towel until Eugene said that if he couldn’t sit still an’ behave
himself he could go out to some alfalfa farmer to get his tonsoral
work completed.
It wasn’t the ol’ man’s fault—he simply couldn’t help it. Touch him
up on a ticklish subject, an’ he just had to come back at ya, same as
a rattler. Finally, however, Eugene had the stubble wore down an’
softened until he decided that he stood a chance again’ it, an’ then
he lathered an’ rubbed, an’ lathered an’ rubbed, until nothin’ stuck
out below ol’ man Dort’s eyes except the peak of his nose; an’ then us
boys pulled out our trump card an’ played it strong. We began to talk
about red squirrels.
Now, we didn’t know anything professional about squirrels, except what
ol’ man Dort had told us; but we slewed his talk around this way an’
that as if it was our own private opinions; an’ the ol’ man began to
groan audible. He gritted his teeth, though, an’ bore up under it like
a hero, until Eugene begin to chip in with what he knew about
squirrels.
Eugene was never content to just speak of a thing in a general
way—his main method of convincin’ us was to allus fall back on his
own personal experience; so this time he began to tell of squirrels
what he had been full acquainted with. He called ’em by name an’ told
how they would run to meet him an’ climb up on his shoulders an’
chatter for nuts, an’ so on; until the ol’ man’s ears turned red with
the strain he was under. And then, we got to discussin’ the size o’
squirrels.
We told about squirrels we had heard about, an’ contested again’ each
other to see which had heard o’ the biggest one; but we never even
mentioned ol’ man Dort’s squirrel. Eugene had shaved his way down to
below the lobe of ol’ man Dort’s right ear, slippin’ in a side remark
to our talk every minute or so; an’ purty soon he sez ’at he knows a
squirrel by the name o’ Daniel Webster back in Montpelier, Vermont,
which was a full half inch longer ’n airy red squirrel we had spoke
of. The ol’ man couldn’t stand this. His head bobbed up, cuttin’ a
gash on the crook of his jaw, and as soon as he could blow the foam
out of his mouth, he sez, “I’ll stake my life, the’ ain’t another
squirrel in this country as big as my own Ben Butler.”
Eugene put his hand on ol’ man Dort’s forehead an’ pushed him back
into the headrest. “You lie there,” sez he, “until I get done shavin’
ya. Then, I’ll bet ya a dollar that I can produce a livin’ squirrel
which’ll out-stand, outweigh, an’ out-fight your squirrel—an’ I ain’t
never seen your squirrel.”
“A dollar!” snorts the ol’ man, flickin’ up his head. “I wouldn’t
bother wakin’ Ben Butler up for a measly dollar. I’ll bet ya ten
dollars.”
“Get back on that headrest,” orders Eugene. “Ten dollars looks a heap
sight better to me than one, an’ I’ll be mighty glad to accommodate
ya.”
Eugene took his fire-stick an’ burned the ol’ man’s cut, an’ the ol’
man had to scruge up his shoulders with the pain of it; but he did it
without noticin’, ’cause his mind was on squirrels. “What breed o’
squirrels is yours?” he asked.
“If you don’t keep your head where I put it, I’ll throw up the job an’
let you go forth lookin’ like the lost Goog o’ Mayhan,” sez Eugene,
raisin’ his voice. Ol’ man Dort was a whalin’ big man, an’ it tickled
us a heap to see little Eugene givin’ him directions, like as if he
was nothin’ but a pup dog.
Ol’ man Dort settled back with a sigh, an’ Eugene leathered up his
razor without sayin’ anything for a minute or two. Then he sez, as he
begins shavin’ again: “That squirrel I have in mind for ring contests
is the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel; and it’s the biggest
breed of squirrels the’ is.”
“The’ ain’t no such a breed of squirrel as that!” yells ol’ man Dort,
springing erect in his chair, an’ dullin’ Eugene’s razor by the
operation.
Eugene stepped back an’ looked at the blood flowin’ from the fresh
cut, an’ he sez slow an’ sarcastic; “If it don’t make any difference
to you whether you have any skin on your face or not, why I’ll just
peel it off an’ tack it on a board to shave it; but hanged if I’m
goin’ to duck around tryin’ to shave you on the jump. The’ is too
grizzly ground-squirrels.”
Well, that’s the way they had it back and forth: every time they would
settle down to business an’ Eugene would get a square inch o’ the ol’
man’s face cleared up, one of us boys would speak something in a low
tone about there bein’ rumors of an uncommon big squirrel out at some
ranch house a hundred miles or so from there. Eugene would ask what
breed of squirrel it was, an’ then decide that it couldn’t be a
patchin’ on a genuwine short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ then
ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it no longer an’ he would forget what he
was doin’, bob up in his chair, an’ lose some more of his life fluid.
Eugene scraped down both sides o’ the ol’ man’s face, givin’ all of
his razors a chance to take part in the job, an’ then he set his lips
an’ started in on the chin.
“What does short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrels eat, Eugene?” asked
Spider Kelley, as innocent as an infant pigeon.
“They eat chickens,—” began Eugene, but ol’ man Dort flew clean out
o’ the chair an’ stood over Eugene shakin’ with rage.
“Chickens?” he roars. “Chickens! The’ never was a squirrel foaled into
this world what et chickens.”
Eugene looked at ol’ man Dort, an’ then he wiped his razor an’ sat
down on a chair, so full of disgust that he could hardly breathe.
“I wish you’d take off that apron an’ bleed into the spittoon,” he
said as calm as he could. “I’ve got customers whose patronage is what
makes up my living expenses; an’ I don’t want ’em to come in here an’
see the whole place a welter of gore.
“What do you think this shop is, anyway?” yelled Eugene springing to
his feet an’ entirely losin’ his patience. “Do you think that I make
my livin’ by grubbin’ down wire grass which has been let grow for
fifty years, an’ educatin’ ignoramuses in the knowledge of squirrels?
I don’t care whether you believe in short-tailed grizzly
ground-squirrels or not; but if you don’t let me tie your head down to
that chair, I won’t shave another sprout off your chin. I take some
pride in my profession, an’ I don’t intend to have no man go out o’ my
shop leavin’ a trail o’ blood which will draw all the dogs for miles
around. Now, you can take your choice.”
Ol’ man Dort had to give in that this was reasonable enough; so he
climbed back into the chair, an’ Eugene tied down his head an’
finished him off without any more trouble. As soon as he had stopped
the bleedin’ an’ put on the perfume an’ oil an’ powder, he sez: “Now,
what I am goin’ to do is to get some nourishment to recuperate back my
strength, an’ if you want the waste products washed out o’ your hair,
you come back here at one o’clock prompt.”
“I want to settle on that bet first,” said ol’ man Dort, who was just
as pernicious as Eugene, once you got him riled up.
“I’ll make that bet with you after dinner,” sez Eugene, “but first off
I got to have food; I’m faint with weakness. Now, I’m goin’ to lock up
my shop.”
After Eugene had marched off to his boardin’ house, we all gathered
around ol’ man Dort, an’ complimented him on his improved appearance,
though to be strictly honest, the’ was considerable doubts about it.
He had two teeth out in front, an’ the tobacco habit; and now, with no
shrubbery to catch the spray, he spluttered terrible when he tried to
talk fast. He said, though, that as long as he had started in he
intended to take the full course, an’ was comin’ back, as soon as he’d
had a bite to eat, to get his hair laundried an’ trimmed up some
around the edges; an’ then he was goin’ to make that bet about the
squirrels.
It was some amusin’ to see the ol’ man get his hair sluiced out, but
not near as much fun as seein’ him shaved. Whenever Eugene found any
stray product, he’d call us all over an’ show it to us, an’ this riled
the ol’ man up considerable; but the best joke was when Eugene found a
woman’s hairpin.
The ol’ man vowed an’ declared an’ carried on somethin’ fierce; but
there was the hairpin, an’ we made him pay for three rounds on the
strength of it. As soon as Eugene was all through, the ol’ man settled
the bill, payin’ for a full day’s work like a regular sport, an’ not
tryin’ to beg off at the ordinary retail price; and then he hardened
his face an’ sez: “Now I bet you ten dollars, that you can’t bring
forward a squirrel as big as my Ben Butler.”
“I’ll take that bet,” sez Eugene, “but you got to give me time to
locate a short-tailed grizzly. It’s the scarcest breed the’ is, an’
it’ll probably cost me twice the sum to get one, but I don’t care
about that. What I want is to vindicate myself. I’d like to see that
squirrel o’ yours.”
“You come right along,” sez ol’ man Dort, glowin’ with pride. “I
reckon when you see him, you’ll just hand over the money at once—That
is, if you know anything at all about squirrels.”
We all marched around to the general store, an’ ol’ man Dort pounded
on the cage. When Ben Butler sat up an’ looked around to see what was
up, the ol’ man waved his hand at him, looked down at Eugene, an’ sez:
“Well?” He said it just like that: “Wu-el?”
Ben Butler was rollin’ fat, an’ he certainly did look like some
squirrel to us; but Eugene merely glanced at him, an’ sez: “Hum, what
we call a dwarf red squirrel, up in Nova Scotia. They have tails,
though, up there.”
The ol’ man spluttered till we had to pound him on the back. “Dwarf?”
he chokes out. “Dwarf! You produce a squirrel to match him, will ya,
or else you pack up your truck an’ move on. I don’t intend to have
no—”
“See here, ol’ man,” sez Eugene, pointin’ a finger at him the same as
if he’d been a naughty child. “A short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel
is from two to four times as big as this one, so if you want to
sidestep the bet, you can do it; but if you want to have some show for
your money, I bet you fifty to ten that I can get a squirrel three
times as big as this one. I own up that for its kind, this squirrel is
of fair, average growth; but—”
“I’ll take that bet!” yelled the old man. “We’ll put up our money with
Ike Spargle this minute; but I don’t want your odds. I’ll bet you even
money.”
Eugene shook his head as if he pitied the ol’ man, an’ he sez,
“Haven’t you never travelled none, or seen a zoological garden?”
“Yes, I’ve travelled some, an’ I’ve seen all kinds o’ gardens,” flares
back the ol’ man; “but what I want now is to fix up this bet.”
“Who’ll be the judges?” sez Eugene.
“I don’t care a snap. Any man who can see through the holes in a
ladder’ll be able to decide between the claims o’ two squirrels. Ike
Spargle an’ Bill Thompson can be the judges.”
“There has to be three,” sez Eugene. “We’ll have Dan Stedman be the
other.”
So they put up the money an’ Eugene was to have six weeks to get his
squirrel; an’ from that on we begun to divide up into rival camps.
The’ wasn’t any tree squirrels out in that neck o’ the woods, an’ we
had all forgot what wild squirrels really was like. We knew the’ was
ground-squirrels, red squirrels, gray squirrels, an’
flyin’-squirrels—although an argument was started about there bein’
flyin’-fish all right, but no flyin’-squirrels, which would have ended
in warfare if Eugene hadn’t been handy to settle it.
You wouldn’t think that a little thing like a bet about the size of a
squirrel would take the way it did; but Eugene was so confident on his
side, an’ ol’ man Dort was so dead sure of Ben Butler, that the rest
of us split up an’ we each had a little side bet on the outcome. It
seemed a tarnation long time while we was waitin’; but in a little
over a month, Eugene got a big box which he took into his back room
without lettin’ even the fellers who had backed his squirrel get a
peep at it.
From that on we got shaved twice a day an’ our heads washed till the
hair started to change color; so that Eugene’s trade was so improved
that even if he lost the bet, he was money ahead; but he scoffed the
idy o’ losin’ the bet, even after his squirrel arrived; and as he was
the only man who had seen both the contestants, he had the whole
country up in the air.
Ol’ man Dort had made his squirrel run around the wheel four hours a
day, pokin’ him up with a stick when he got lazy; an’ this gave Ben
Butler sech a prodigious appetite that the ol’ man had to set up late
at night to give him an extra meal. As the day o’ settlement came
closer, the ol’ man tapered off on the exercise, an’ doubled up on the
feed, until Ben Butler looked a full size larger, an’ us fellers who
had our money on Eugene’s squirrel began to get shaky. If it had been
just an even race, it would have been a fair deal; but to have to show
a squirrel three times larger than Ben Butler seemed an impossibility.
Eugene had been fussin’ over his entry too, an’ we used to sneak up
behind his shop at nights to listen to him. We could hear him snippin’
with scissors and pullin’ stoppers out o’ bottles and when he was
through he’d say: “Stand up there, Columbus”—which was the name of
his champion, an’ then he would seem to pass in a bunch o’ feed, an’
say—“Good boy, Columbus! that dwarf red squirrel can turn a double
handspring in your shadder.”
This used to hearten us up again, and we’d lay a little more money on
Eugene’s squirrel. Ike, an’ Bill, an’ Dan—the judges—said that they
didn’t claim to know anything about the breeds o’ squirrels, an’ all
they was to judge on was the size, which would be settled by weight if
the’ was any dispute. They got kind o’ nervous toward the end, ’cause
the fellers were all on edge, an’ a rank decision meant trouble in
bunches.
When the final day o’ settlement arrived, Boggs was seven deep with
fellers on edge to see the outcome. Most of us had all we could spare
hung up in bets; but the’ was still a lot o’ coin in the crowd, and a
crew came over from Cheyenne to take charge of it.
They had a game which certainly was attractive, I’ll say that much for
it. It was a round board full o’ numbers, and up the middle was a
tower with slopin’ sides covered with nails. A marble was dropped into
a hole at the top and bobbled on the nails until it went into a row of
holes at the bottom, and came out in a groove leadin’ to one o’ the
numbers. Some o’ these numbers doubled the player’s money, some of ’em
paid it over to the table; but most of ’em was neutral, and a feller
had to double what he already had up, in order to stand a show. It was
an innocent-appearin’ game, but deceptive. When a feller had up all he
could raise, some stranger would offer him two bits for his chance,
put up the doublin’ money—and win. This was a capper o’ course; but
crowds don’t have any sense when they start gamblin’, and this crew
was cleanin’ us out until, all of a sudden, I heard a clear, low-toned
voice say: “If one o’ you boys would upset that table, you’d see the
lever which controls the marble.”
I glanced up, and there was the Singin’ Parson, as cool as a frozen
fish. Ol’ Tom Williams, commonly known as “Tank,” had just lost six
dollars, and he upset the table and saw just how tight braced the
blame game was. Then he unlimbered his gun, and suggested that he
would feel calmer if he had the six dollars back, and the Cheyenne
gambler looked into Tank’s free eye, which was pointin’ at the
ceilin’, and he seconded Tank’s motion. After this the rest o’ the
boys collected what they felt was due ’em, and the Cheyenne crowd had
to fall back on charity for their noon lunch.
Just about one o’clock, the head crook saw the Singin’ Parson standin’
close to Eugene’s barber shop. The shop was locked, and the crowd
around was lookin’ at it. The crook didn’t want to attract any
attention; so, instead o’ usin’ a gun, he struck at the Parson with a
club. He miscalculated, and hit the shoulder instead o’ the head. The
Parson whirled, grabbed the club with his left hand, and the crook’s
shirt collar with his right. The crook started to pull; but we settled
down on him, and were all ready to serve out justice, when the Parson
interrupted to say that it was none of our business, and if we’d just
form a ring, he’d settle it to everybody’s satisfaction. He said he
expected to live among us for the rest of his life, and this would be
a good time to introduce his methods.
We took off the crook’s weapons, and then formed a big ring. The
Parson was smilin’ a business-like smile, while the crook was palin’
up noticeable. “I am convinced that a man must settle some things,
himself, in a new country,” sez the Parson. “I am larger than you, so
it is fair for you to use this club; but I warn you in advance that I
understand how to guard again’ clubs, so do your best. I’m ready,
begin.”
It was quite eddifyin’ to behold: the crook made a vicious smash at
the Parson’s head, the Parson bent his arm at the elbow, muscle out,
so the bone wouldn’t get bruised, stepped in, and hit the crook a
swing in the short ribs. Some say it lifted him ten feet, some say
only eight; but any way, when he lit, he gave a grunt like an empty
barrel, and the Parson had no trouble in layin’ him over his knee and
givin’ him the most liberal spankin’ with that club I ever was
spectator to; while the crowd howled itself hoarse in the throat.
Now the Parson wasn’t angry, he grinned all the way through, and when
he had taken as much exercise as he felt was good for him, he set the
crook on his feet, and talked fatherly advice to him as sober an’
dignified as was possible—considerin’ the fact that the crook was
dancin’ about like a spider on a hot skillet, and rubbin’ the part
which had got most intimate with the club.
Eugene had seen it all through his window, and when it was over, he
came out and shook the Parson’s hand, and said he was just the kind
needed in such an ungodly community, and that he reminded him for all
the world of Friar Tuck in Robin Hood. Now, we hadn’t none of us heard
of Friar Tuck up to that time; but it was a name well fitted to the
tongue, and from the way Eugene said it, we elected it was a
compliment; so we gave it to the Singin’ Parson on the spot, and it
soaked into his bones, and he hasn’t needed any other since.
This little incident kept us all in a good humor until three o’clock,
which was the fatal hour for the squirrel-contest.
Then ol’ man Dort marched to the center o’ the street, carryin’ his
cage as though it was full o’ diamonds; an’ Ben Butler sat up an’
chattered as if he was darin’ the whole race o’ squirrels to bring
forth his equal.
“I don’t reckon a squirrel could get three times as big as him without
explodin’,” sez Spider Kelley, who also had his money on Eugene’s
squirrel.
“Here comes Eugene with Columbus,” sez I, not carin’ to waste breath
on an opinion I had backed up with good money.
Eugene came down the street carryin’ one end of a box, with Doc Forbes
carryin’ the other. The box was covered with a clean apron, an’ Eugene
wasn’t lookin’ down in the mouth or discouraged.
“From the size o’ that box, we’re goin’ to have a run for our money,”
sez Spider. “If Columbus just looks good enough to make ’em settle by
the scales, I haven’t any kick comin’.”
Well, as Eugene drew closer, that crowd fell into a silence until all
a body could hear was Ben Butler braggin’ about all the nuts he had
et, an’ what a prodigious big squirrel he was; but Eugene never
faltered. He walked up an’ set his box down careful, motioned Doc over
to the side lines, made a graceful motion to ol’ man Dort, an’ sez:
“As yours is the local champion you introduce him first, an’ make your
claim.”
Ol’ man Dort removed his tobacco, wiped his forehead, an’ sez: “Feller
citizens, I make the claim that Ben Butler is the biggest full-blooded
squirrel ever sent to enlighten the solitude of lonely humanity. This
is him.”
The ol’ man looked lovin’ly down at his squirrel, an’ we every one of
us gave a rousin’ cheer. It was all the family the ol’ man had, an’ it
meant more to him ’n a body who hadn’t never tried standin’ his own
company months at a time could realize. Ol’ man Dort thrust some new
tobacco into his face, bit his lips, winked his eyes rapid, an’ bowed
to us, almost overcome.
Then Eugene stepped a space to the front, bowed to the crowd in
several directions, an’ sez: “Gentlemen, an’ feller citizens—From
Iceland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands an’ Afric’s sunny
fountains, every nation an’ every clime has produced some peculiar
product o’ nature which lifts it above an’ sets it apart from all the
other localities of the globe. When you speak of the succulent banana,
the golden orange, or the prickly pineapple, Nova Scotia remains
silent; but when you speak of varmints, she rears up on her hind legs
and with a glad shout of triumph, she hands forth the short-tailed
grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ sez, ‘Give me the blue ribbons, the gold
medals, an’ the laurel crowns of victory.’ I have the rare pleasure
an’ the distinctive honor of presenting to your notice Columbus, the
hugest squirrel ever exhibited within the confines of captivity.”
We was so took by Eugene’s eloquence that we hardly noticed him slip
the apron from in front of his cage; but when we did look, we could
hardly get our breath. I was standin’ close to the Friar; and at first
he looked puzzled, and then his face lit up with a regular boy’s grin;
but he didn’t say a word.
Columbus was certainly a giant; he stood full two feet tall as he sat
up an’ scrutinized around with a bossy sort of grin. He was dappled
fawn color on the sides with a curly black streak down the back an’
sort o’ chestnut-red below, with a short tail an’ teeth like chisels.
He won so blame easy that even us what had bet on him didn’t cheer.
Ol’ man Dort give a grin, thinkin’ Ben Butler must have won, an’ then
he stepped around an’ looked into Eugene’s cage. He looked first at
Columbus, an’ then at Ben Butler, then he looked again. “That damned
thing ain’t alive,” he sez. “It’s made up out o’ wool yarn. Poke it up
an’ let me see it move.”
“Poke it yourself,” sez Eugene. He was one o’ these cold-blooded
gamblers who ain’t got one speck o’ decent sentimentality; an’ he was
mad ’cause we hadn’t cheered.
Ol’ man Dort took a stick an’ poked Columbus, an’ Columbus give a
threatenin’ grin, chattered savage, an’ bit the stick in two. “Give
him the money, Ike,” sez ol’ man Dort. “I own up I never was in Nova
Scotia, an’ I never supposed that such squirrels as this grew on the
face o’ the whole earth. What’ll you take for him?” he sez to Eugene.
“It ain’t your fault that you didn’t know about him,” sez Eugene,
thawin’ a little humanity into himself. “I don’t want to rub it in on
nobody; and I’ll give you this here squirrel free gratis, ’cause I
admit that you know more about squirrels ’n anybody else what ever I
met; an’ you have the biggest red squirrel the’ is in the world.”
Then we did give Eugene a cheer, an’ everything loosened up, an’ we
all crowded into Ike Spargle’s so that them what won could spend a
little money on them what lost.
After a time, ol’ man Dort got up on a chair, an’ sez: “I want you
fellers to know that Columbus won’t never be my pet. Ben Butler has
been the squarest squirrel ever was, an’ he continues to remain my
pet; but I’ll study feedin’ this condemned foreign squirrel, an’ give
him a fair show; so that if any outsiders come around makin’ brags, we
will have a home squirrel to enter again’ ’em an’ get their money.”
Eugene led the cheerin’ this time, which made Eugene solider than ever
with the boys, an’ when Spider an’ me got ready to ride home, he an’
ol’ man Dort had their arms around each other tryin’ to sing the Star
Spangled Banner.
Spider talked about Columbus most o’ the way home, but I was still.
The’ was somethin’ peculiar about the Friar’s grin when he first
sighted Columbus, and the’ was somethin’ familiar about that squirrel,
an’ I was tryin’ to adjust myself. Just as we swung to the west on the
last turn, I sez to Spider: “Spider, I don’t know what I ought to do
about this?”
“About what?” sez Spider.
“About this bet?”
“Well, it was a fair bet, wasn’t it? Columbus is full four times as
big as Ben Butler.”
“Yes,” sez I, “but he ain’t no squirrel.”
Spider pulled up to a stop. “Ain’t no squirrel?” he sez. “What do you
take me for, didn’t I see him myself? What is he then?”
“He’s a woodchuck, that’s what he is,” sez I. “He’s a genuwine ground
hog with his hair cut stylish and died accordin’ to Eugene’s idy of
high art. I remember now that I used to see ’em when I was a little
shaver back on my dad’s farm in Indiana.”
Spider give a whoop, an’ then he laughed, an’ then he sobered up, an’
sez: “Well, you can’t do nothin’ now, anyway. The judges have decided
it, ol’ man Dort has give it up, it ain’t your game nohow, an’ if you
was to try to equal back those bets after they have been paid an’
mostly spent, you’d start a heap o’ blood-spillin’; an’ furthermore,
as far as I’m concerned, I ain’t right sure but what a woodchuck, as
you call it, ain’t some kind of a squirrel. We’ll just let this go an’
wait for a chance to put something over on Eugene.”
So that’s what we made up to do; but this gives you an idy of how fine
a line the Friar drew on questions o’ sport. He knew ’at we weren’t
full fledged angels, and that we had to have our little diversities;
but when any professional hold-up men tried to ring in a brace game on
us, he couldn’t see any joke in it, and he upset the money-changers’
tables, the same as they was upset that time, long ago, in the temple.