Part 3

“You did,” states uh voice behind us, and there stands Mighty Jones. He’s standin’ sorta bent forward at th’ waist line, while one hand explores th’ rear of his pants.

“Did I hit it?” asks th’ Doc, ag’in, sorta eager like, and Mighty replies more in sorrow than in anger:

“You shore did. Both loads, dad bust yore soul—and me without no drawers on. I tries to smear yuh with my six-gun, but finds that all I’m shootin’ at is yore hat and part uh yore shirt on uh bush.”

“Say, Mighty,” sez Magpie, gittin’ around on th’ windward side of th’ ol’ jasper, “you must uh took uh bath in that Jap oil. You shore are odoriferous, ol’-timer. Whew!”

“It slopped uh li’l,” sez Mighty. Abe was ailin’ somethin’ awful over in that ol’ prospect, and I figgers that th’ doc would relieve him uh heap if I brings him over. I reads th’ epitaph on that bottle and it orates that it’s good fer cramps.

“I tries to give some to Abe but he don’t warm up to th’ smell a-tall. In fact he won’t even associate with me, and ambles ahead uh me all th’ way over. Down here uh li’l ways I manages to overhaul him and shoves th’ whole works down his blamed neck. It shore animates him uh heap, Magpie. I’m watchin’ him go spry like and loudly off into the brush, when all to oncet two loads uh bird-shot comes along and hives into th’ seat uh my pants. It riles me uh heap. I’ll leave it to you if bird-shot ain’t aggravatin’, Magpie.”

Th’ doc gits enough of th’ conversation to learn that he’s shot Mighty, and he seems uh heap concerned. He’s still hangin’ onto that tree, but he holds up his other hand and sez:

“No more, I’m through using a gun. Mister Jones, would you accept that gun as a present?”

“Now, ain’t that ——?” wails Mighty. “Ain’t it, Magpie? Here I been wantin’ uh britch loader shotgun fer years, and jist when somebody gives me one I’ve already tied th’ danged thing around uh tree so it won’t never shoot no more. Ain’t that cheerin’?”

“Well,” sez I, “lets go up to th’ cabin and see how things is shapin’ up there. I has uh feelin’ that all our good works is ravelin’ out.”

* * * * *

We gits almost to th’ cabin when we sees th’ perfessor. He’s settin’ on th’ ground near where th’ badger was tied to uh tree, but there ain’t no sign of th’ badger, and Abe ain’t in sight.

Th’ perfessor’s black coat is split up th’ back, and his hard hat is circlin’ his arm like uh band uh crape. There’s uh scratch th’ whole length uh his face, but he’s still grinnin’ and tryin’ to write on one leaf uh that li’l book. Th’ rest is some tore up and scattered.

“I was right!” he squeaks. “I told Professor Manning that the parent bear would seek and find its young. They went away together. I had untied the cub to take it down to the creek for a drink, when the outraged mother came along and forcibly freed her baby. She——”

“Bang!”

From th’ inside of th’ cabin comes th’ report of uh heavy shootin’ iron, and Mrs. Perfessor spills out of th’ door, and skates her three hundred pounds off th’ porch. She sets there and claws th’ hair out of her eyes.

“Remarkable performance!” exclaims th’ perfessor. “She never fired a shot before.”

“It—it—it buh—buh—busted,” she stutters, pointin’ at th’ cabin.

“Wimmin ought to let guns alone—also some men,” states Mighty, still prospectin’ fer lead on th’ rear of his personal property.

“Gun,” snorts th’ injured lady. “It wasn’t no gun.”

“What was it, my dear?” asks th’ Perfessor.

“Milk,” she snaps. “Milk for the bear. It just got hot and blew up.”

“My ——,” gasps Magpie. “Ain’t that jist like uh woman. She forgot to punch uh hole in th’ top of th’ can.”

“Never mind, my dear,” consoles th’ perfessor. “My contention is proved, and we can leave at once. We’ll adjust matters with our employees and go home.”

“What about th’ snake theory, Perfessor?” I asks.

“Do they or don’t they?” he asks, haulin’ out th’ remains uh that li’l book.

“They don’t,” sez I. “They never have and never will.”

“At least I can point with pride to the fact that I hit something,” remarks th’ doc with uh grin, when he gits on his burro and lights another one uh them stinkin’ rolls. “I’m sorry I didn’t have a rifle, I might have killed a bear.”

“If yuh can see this far, and sabe th’ direction, yuh might point with pride to th’ fact that I can’t set down fer uh week,” orates Mighty.

“Perfessor,” sez Magpie, “would yuh mind tellin’ me jist edzactly what competent means?”

Th’ perfessor adjusts th’ remains uh that hard hat on his peaked head, and squints at Magpie over th’ top uh them funereal-rimmed glasses. “Why,—er—it means, adequate or sufficient.”

“Thanks,” sez Magpie. “It shore is and we have had. _Adios._”

“It stands to reason—” begins Magpie, as th’ caravan goes off down th’ trail, with Mrs. Perfessor’s burro squeakin’ and groanin’ at th’ rear, but Mighty ceases scratchin’ long enough to snort:

“Reason, eh? By cripes, Magpie, that’s uh fightin’ word with th’ Jones fambly from now on and ever more. I listened to reason oncet, and look what she done to me. I got to sneak up on my belly to dinner, and pore ol’ Abe’s——”

“Abe,” sez Magpie, “is either uh bear angel by now or uh fugitive from Jap oil. Here’s an extra ten dollars, Mighty. Be glad.”

“That’s shore reasonable,” sez Mighty.

THE END

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the August, 1917 issue of Adventure magazine.]