The Man from Bar-20
a sensible feller, B. F. G. is; but only in spots, little spots, widely spaced."
"You talk as much as Jim Howard's wife," grumbled Spurred Boots. "Jim he said—"
"Of course he did! wasn't it awful?" interposed Fleming. "It was just like a man. But I think it was me that told you that story; so we'll let it keep its secret. As I was sayin', getting in my words edgeways like, but shore gettin' 'em in: Ben has pulled th' picket stake, an' like th' Arabs, done went."
"You mean Arapahoes."
"Did I? I allus call 'em that for short. Have mercy, Jehovah!"
"I saw him move just before I spoke," replied Spurred Boots positively. "But that was a long time ago, before th' deluge, of words," he jabbed ironically.
"Cease; spare thy whacks. An' where th' h—l did you ever hear of th' deluge? Some Old Timer tell you about it?" responded Fleming. "I been seein' things, too. All kinds of things. Some had tails but no legs; some had legs but no tails; an' to make a short tale shorter, that was a ghost what you saw. A wild, woopin', woppin' ghost. Come on, Nat; let's flit."
"Then my ghost lit a cigarette a long time back," retorted Nat Harrison. "An' then it said 'flop.' Do
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