“Wonder if singing would help it any?”
“Might as well wish for condensed milk,” says I.
“I might sing a little,” says he apologetic-like.
“Yes,” says I. “You might. You never have--not in my hearing, Magpie.
Even if your vocal efforts would please the child, it would be a heap
nerve racking to me; so I votes in favor of the infant solo.”
The baby keeps on playing three notes plumb across the board:
“_Wa-a-a-a! Ma-a-a-a-a! Yah-a-a-a-a!_”
Pretty soon Magpie stops and sets down on the rail.
“Ike, I can’t stand this,” he wails. “We’ve got to get condensed milk
for this human phonygraft, or it will ruin its lungs.”
We sets there in the dark and contemplates deep-like. Off in the
distance a coyote raises its voice in protest against the bounty law,
and then a cow bawls soft-like.
“My ----!” grunts Magpie prayerful-like. “Cow! Don’t they make condensed
milk out of cow milk, Ike?”
“Did you think they made it out of cans?” I asks.
“Cow!” he grunted joyful-like, getting to his feet. “We’ll milk that
critter, Ike.”
He picks up our painful inheritance, pilgrims down the railroad fill,
and we goes in the direction of that cow’s voice. We finds said bawlers
standing in the corner of a fence, and they acts inquisitive toward us.
“We ain’t got no rope, Magpie,” I objects. But he’s enthusiastic over
the proposition and says:
“Milk cows ain’t wild, Ike. All you’ve got to do is to corner ’em.
_Sabe?_ You hold this starving infant while Uncle Dudley plays
milkmaid.”
He crawls over the fence and approaches the herd. I’ll admit that Magpie
has a soothing voice, and his “So-o-o, boss,” would assure most anything
of his good intentions. But them cows ain’t used to having strangers
come out of the night to steal their juice. They sort of mills around
and acts foreign to his designs.
“Make that kid shut up!” he yelps. “It’s scaring the critters, Ike.”
“I ain’t no murderer,” says I. “There is things that nothing short of
sudden death will stop. Hurry up with the nourishment.”