Ringsh on tail. Make wife fine muff, or fur trimmingsh. Good to
till boysh at club about, shee?"
"Are you asking me to go on a coon hunt with you?" demanded the
Thread Man. "When? Where?"
"Corshally invited," answered Jimmy. "To-morrow night. Canoper.
Show you plashe. Bill Duke's dogs. My gunsh. Moonsh shinin'. Dogs
howlin'. Shnow flying! Fify coonsh rollin' out one hole! Shoot all
dead! Take your pick! Tan skin for you myself! Roaring big firesh
warm by. Bag finesh sandwiches ever tasted. Milk pail pure gold
drink. No stop, slop out going over bridge. Take jug. Big jug. Toss
her up an' let her gurgle. Dogsh bark. Fire pop. Guns bang. Fifty
coons drop. Boysh all go. Want to get more education. Takes culture
to get woolsh off. Shay, will you go? "
"I wouldn't miss it for a thousand dollars," said the Thread Man.
"But what will I say to my house for being a day late?"
"Shay gotter grip," suggested Jimmy. "Never too late to getter
grip. Will you all go, boysh?"
There were not three men in the saloon who knew of a tree that had
contained a coon that winter, but Jimmy was Jimmy, and to be
trusted for an expedition of that sort; and all of them agreed to
be at the saloon ready for the hunt at nine o'clock the next night.
The Thread Man felt that he was going to see Life. He immediately
invited the boys to the bar to drink to the success of the hunt.
"You shoot own coon yourself," offered the magnanimous Jimmy. "You
may carrysh my gunsh, take first shot.
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