“Well, did you lick Ben?” I says.

“No; Ben licked me,” he says.

I’d never heard such a simple and astounding speech from any man on earth before.  I started to find out what his excuse was—­whether he wasn’t in good shape yet, or his foot slipped, or Ben took a coupling pin to him, or something.  But he didn’t have a single word of excuse.  He ought to of been locked up in a glass case in a museum right there.  He said he was in fine shape and it had been a fair fight, and Ben had nearly knocked his head off.

I says what is he going to do now; and he says oh, he’ll wait a while and give Cousin Ben another go.

I says:  “Mebbe you can’t lick Ben.”

He says:  “Possibly so; but I can keep on trying.  I have to protect my honour, don’t I?”

That’s how it seemed to the poor fish by this time—­his honour!  And I knew he was going to keep on trying, like he had said.  If he had made the usual excuses that men put up when they’ve had the worst of it I’d of known he’d been well licked, and once would be a-plenty.  But, seeing that he was probably the only man who had been honest under such conditions since the world began, I had a feeling he would keep on.  He was sure going to annoy Ben from time to time, even if he didn’t panic him much.  He was just as turbulent as ever.  Now he went off and joined a circus, being engaged to lecture in front of the side show about the world’s smallest midget, and Lulu the snake empress, and the sheep-headed twins from Ecuador.  And Ben could devote the whole summer to his career without worry.  I saw him over at Colfax one day.

“Mark my words; that lad was never cut out for a railroad man,” says Ben.  “He lets his emotions excite his head too much.  Oh, I give him a good talking to, by doggie!  I says to him:  ’Why, you poor little hopeless, slant-headed, weak-minded idiot, you’—­you know I always talk to Ed like he was my own brother—­’what did you expect?’ I says.  ’I’m quite sorry for your injuries; but that was the first chance I’d ever had to make a report and I couldn’t write one of these continuous stories about you.  You ought to see that.’  And what does he do but revile me for this commonsense talk!  Tightminded—­that’s what he is; self-headed, not to say mulish, by doggie!  And then pestering round me to have a fist altercation till I had to give in to keep him quiet, though I’m not a fighting character.  I settled him, all right.  I don’t know where he is now; but I hope he has three doctors at his bedside, all looking doubtful.  That little cuss always did contrary me.”

I told him Ed had gone with this circus side show.  “Side show!” he says.  “That’s just where he belongs.  He ought to be setting right up with the other freaks, because he’s a worse freak than the living skeleton or a lady with a full beard—­that’s what he is.  And yet he’s sane on every subject but that.  Sometimes he’ll talk along for ten minutes as rational as you or me; but let him hear the word accident and off he goes.  But, by doggie, he won’t bother me again after what I give him back of the Wallace freight shed.”  “He solemnly promised he would,” I says, “when I saw him last.  He was still some turbulent.”