The Man from Bar-20
"I am an ijut; an' you are an ijut," replied Luke with exaggerated patience. "That makes two; an' so we are two ijuts."
"Can't you say nothin' else, One Ijut?" demanded Johnny peevishly. "Yo're tiresome; yo're a repeater, rim fire, Chestnut, model of 1873. I'm lazy by nature; but doin' nothin' all th' time is hard work. It don't set right. They have taken her to Georgia, there to wear her life away. An' my neck aches from lookin' up, an' holdin' my head out on th' end of it. My stummick an' my elbows, my knees an' my toes all, all ache. They are rock-galled. As she toils 'mid th' cotton an' th' corn."
"Cane," corrected Luke. "Yore appalin' ignerence is discouragin'. We are two ijuts."
"All right; I quit," said Johnny wearily. "Have it yore own way; mebby we are. But it could 'a' been corn just as well as cane, anyhow. Why are we two ijuts?"
"Because we are holdin' th' bag," said Luke sadly.
Johnny turned around and stuck his head out. "Yes?" he inquired, with a rising inflection. "I'm plumb insulted. I ain't never held no bag; not never!"
"'Tain't never too late to learn," said Luke sorrowfully. "Th' snipe has come, an' went; an' we're still holdin' th' bag."
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