by W. C. Tuttle
Author of “The Domestication of Dobie,” “The Hand of Providence,” etc.
If it is true that it takes all kinds of folks to make a world, Magpie
Simpkins was a specimen without a parallel. He’d take a chance on
anything from soda-water to stocks, and his head was a regular
greenhouse of fool ideas.
He’s so tall that any one would bet he had seventeen more vertebræ than
the average man, and to hear him talk you’d think his family name was
Knowledge. I’m Ike Harper, and I’ve been a suffering pardner to this
long, gun-packing cross between a walking argument and a psychologist
for years and years, and while I don’t change much in looks I’m breaking
down internally at an alarming rate.
This day me and Magpie are setting in our cabin on Plenty Stone Creek
with Tellurium Woods, and Magpie has got his long nose stuck deep into
an old magazine.
Tellurium Woods is worth a passing mention. He’s anti everything except
“Have a drink?” when he’s open to conviction. He’s about five feet six
inches in height, and about the same in diameter, and uses a flannel rag
instead of a comb. He’s got a claim on the creek above ours, neither of
which show anything except recent labor. He ain’t partial to games of
chance—carrying his own marked deck and loaded dice, and pines for a
cinch bet.
Magpie lays the magazine down on the table, while he rolls a cigaret,
and I can see that he’s found food for thought. I sighs to myself. I
know the symptoms. After the smoke is trailing up past his long nose, he
turns to me and Tellurium, and snorts:
“Pshaw! They make a fuss about something that anybody could do just as
well, and maybe I could do it a lot better.”
“What bank got robbed this time, Magpie?” inquires Tellurium.