“That’s just like them,” interposed Fox Quarternight.

“Well, there was an old man lived in this town, who was the genuine blend of bluegrass and Bourbon.  If another Kentuckian came within twenty miles of him, and he found it out, he’d hunt him up and they’d hold a two-handed reunion.  We put up the job that this young man should play that he was a Kentuckian, hoping that the old man would take him to his bosom and give him something to do.  So we took him into town one day, coached and fully posted how to act and play his part.  We met the old man in front of his place of business, and, after the usual comment on the news over our way, weather, and other small talk, we were on the point of passing on, when one of our own crowd turned back and inquired, ’Uncle Henry, have you met the young Kentuckian who’s in the country?’

“‘No,’ said the old man, brightening with interest, ’who is he and where is he?’

“‘He’s in town somewhere,’ volunteered one of the boys.  We pretended to survey the street from where we stood, when one of the boys blurted out, ’Yonder he stands now.  That fellow in front of the drug store over there, with the hard-boiled hat on.’

“The old man started for him, angling across the street, in disregard of sidewalks.  We watched the meeting, thinking it was working all right.  We were mistaken.  We saw them shake hands, when the old man turned and walked away very haughtily.  Something had gone wrong.  He took the sidewalk on his return, and when he came near enough to us, we could see that he was angry and on the prod.  When he came near enough to speak, he said, ’You think you’re smart, don’t you?  He’s a Kentuckian, is he?  Hell’s full of such Kentuckians!’ And as he passed beyond hearing he was muttering imprecations on us.  The young fellow joined us a minute later with the question, ’What kind of a crank is that you ran me up against?’

“‘He’s as nice a man as there is in this country,’ said one of the crowd.  ‘What did you say to him?’

“‘Nothing’; he came up to me, extended his hand, saying, “My young friend, I understand that you’re from Kentucky.”  “I be, sir,” I replied, when he looked me in the eye and said, “You’re a G——­ d——­ liar,” and turned and walked away.  Why, he must have wanted to insult me.  And then we all knew why our little scheme had failed.  There was food and raiment in it for him, but he would use that little word ‘be.’”

“Did any of you notice my saddle horse lie down just after we crossed this last creek this afternoon?” inquired Rod Wheat.

“No; what made him lie down?” asked several of the boys.

“Oh, he just found a gopher hole and stuck his forefeet into it one at a time, and then tried to pull them both out at once, and when he couldn’t do it, he simply shut his eyes like a dying sheep and lay down.”

“Then you’ve seen sheep die,” said the horse wrangler.

“Of course I have; a sheep can die any time he makes up his mind to by simply shutting both eyes—­then he’s a goner.”