this zizzaparoola he gives me about pancakes? Tell me that.’
“When I said ‘pancakes’ Uncle Emsley sort of dodged and stepped back.
“‘Somebody’s been dealing me pancakes from the bottom of the deck,’ I says, ‘and I’ll find out. I believe you know. Talk up,’ says I, ‘or we’ll mix a panful of batter right here.’
“I slid over the counter after Uncle Emsley. He grabbed at his gun, but it was in a drawer, and he missed it two inches. I got him by the front of his shirt and shoved him in a corner.
“‘Talk pancakes,’ says I, ‘or be made into one. Does Miss Willella make ’em?’
“‘She never made one in her life and I never saw one,’ says Uncle Emsley, soothing. ‘Calm down now, Jud—calm down. You’ve got excited, and that wound in your head is contaminating your sense of intelligence. Try not to think about pancakes.’
“‘Uncle Emsley,’ says I, ‘I’m not wounded in the head except so far as my natural cogitative instincts run to runts. Jackson Bird told me he was calling on Miss Willella for the purpose of finding out her system of producing pancakes, and he asked me to help him get the bill of lading of the ingredients. I done so, with the results as you see. Have I been sodded down with Johnson grass by a pink-eyed snoozer, or what?’
“‘Slack up your grip on my dress shirt,’ says
