"And wasn't she the gal for me,
And wasn't she, I pray, sir,
And I'll be _drot_, if you say not,
We'll fight this very day, sir.
We'll fight this very day, sir."
Having delivered himself of this choice morsel of song, the half-witted
fellow conceitedly challenged the attention of the group whom he had not
hitherto been disposed to see.
"'Spose you reckon I don't see you, riding 'longside of me, and saying
nothing, but listening to my song. I'm singing for my own self, and you
oughtn't to listen--I didn't ax you, and I'd like to know what you're
doing so nigh Chub's house."
"Why, where's your house, Chub?" asked one of the party.
"You ain't looking for it, is you? 'cause you can't think to find it
a-looking down. I lives in the tree-top when weather's good like
to-night, and when it ain't, I go into the hollow. I've a better house
than Guy Rivers--he don't take the tree at all, no how."
"And where is his house, Chub?" was the common inquiry of all the party.
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