Me an’ Horace was regular chums after this. I had got to likin’ him after he had showed up good stuff under treatment; but I never took him serious until he got enthusiastic about Friar Tuck. This proved him to have desirable qualities and made him altogether worth while. A man never gets too old to dote on flattery; but the older he gets the more particular he is about its quality. It’s just like tobacco an’ pie an’ whiskey an’ such things: we start out hungry for ’em an’ take a lot o’ trouble to get ’em in quantity; but after a time we’d sooner go without altogether than not to have a superior article; an’ it’s just the same way with flattery.

I took Horace into my most thoughtful moods as soon as I found out that he was as sound as a nut at heart, an’ that it wasn’t altogether his fault that he had been a pest to me at first. The human mind is like new land, some of it’s rich an’ some poor. Facts is like manure, idees is like seed, an’ education is like spadin’ up an’ hoein’ an’ rakin’. Rich soil is bound to raise somethin’, even if it’s nothin’ but weeds; but poor soil needs special care, or it won’t even raise weeds. Now, manure can be put on so thick it will turn ground sour, an’ seeds can be sowed so thick they will choke each other, an’ a green hand will sometimes hoe up the vegetables an’ cultivate the weeds; but the soil ain’t to blame for this.

Poor Horace’s mind had been bungled to an infernal degree; an’ it kept me busy rootin’ up sprouts o’ Greek religion. I’d have stood this better if the Greek gods an’ godduses had had Christian names; ’cause I own up ’at some o’ his tales of ’em was interestin’; but I couldn’t keep track of ’em, an’ so I made him discard ’em in his conversations with me; an’ the way he flattered me was, to reform himself accordin’ to what I demanded.

I was teachin’ him how to shoot, an’ he was enjoyin’ it a lot. He had plenty o’ money, and took pleasure in spendin’ it. This was good, ’cause it costs a lot o’ money to become a good shot. I’m glad I don’t know what it cost me to learn how to shoot a man through both ears after doin’ the double reverse roll. I never had but one fit chance to use this, an’ then I shot Frenchy through his ears without rememberin’ to use the roll. I allus felt bad about this, ’cause I had a good audience, an’ nothin’ saves a man from the necessity o’ shootin’ his fellows, so much as havin’ it well advertised that he is thoroughly qualified to do it in proper style. I kept up my own practicin’ while teachin’ Horace, an’ we had right sociable times.

He could throw up a tin can with his left hand, pull his gun and, about once out o’ ten shots, hit the can before it fell; which is purty fair shootin’; but he was beginnin’ to suspect that he was a regular gun-man; which is a dangerous idee for any one to get into his head. I tried to weight down his head a little to keep him sensible, but instead o’ thankin’ me he went off with Tank, who shot up a lot of his cartridges at target practice; and in return, puffed up the top-heavy opinion Horace already had of himself.

He took Horace down to a warm caÑon where the’ was a lot o’ rattlesnakes, claimin’ it was necessary to test him out an’ see if he had nerve on a livin’ creature. He shot off the heads o’ three snakes, hand-runnin’, an’ it nearly broke his hatband.

When he told me about it, I let him know ’at Tank was only workin’ him. “A rattlesnake will strike at a flash, Horace,” sez I; “an’ it was the snake’s eyes which were accurate, not yours.” This cut him up an’ made him a little offish with me for a few days, until he found I had told him the truth. Ol’ Tank Williams wasn’t no fancy shot; but I’d rather have tackled Horace with a gun, cocked in his hand, than ol’ Tank, with his gun asleep in its holster.

After Horace had made the test of shootin’ at dead snakes an’ had found that he couldn’t pop off three heads hand-runnin’, he simmered down a little an’ paid more heed to what I told him; but after I had proved that I told him straighter stuff ’n Tank did, I decided it would be necessary to punish him a little. I didn’t get downright cold with him, because I didn’t want to exaggerate his vanity any more ’n it already was; but I made it a point to do my loafin’ with Spider Kelley. Horace was crazy to go bear-huntin’; but I didn’t seem interested, an’ I recommended ol’ Tank Williams as bein’ some the best bear-hunter the’ was in existence. I wasn’t jealous of Horace goin’ off shootin’ with Tank; but still if a feller chooses to dispense with my company, I allus like to show him ’at I can stand it as long as he can.

Quite a string o’ years had slipped away since the bettin’ barber o’ Boggs had strung ol’ man Dort; so I reminded Spider ’at we had agreed to help even that up sometime; and Spider, he said he was ready to do his part, whatever it happened to be; so we planned idees out among ourselves, while Horace hung around lookin’ wishful.

We had never given it away about the woodchuck not bein’ a regular squirrel; so the boys still used to congregate together purty often at ol’ man Dort’s to marvel at the way Columbus had filled out an’ took on flesh. He had got rough an’ blotchy soon after he had won the contest from Ben Butler, the red squirrel, an’ it was plain to all that Eugene had done some high-toned barberin’ on him before the day o’ the show.

Ol’ man Dort didn’t have no affection for Columbus—fact is, he sort o’ hated him for bein’ bigger ’n Ben Butler; but he kept him fat an’ fit so as to be ready to enter in a contest the minute any feller came along with a squirrel he thought was big enough to back up with a bet. The trouble was, that mighty few fellers out that way owned any squirrels, an’ as the years dragged by without him gettin’ any pastime out o’ Columbus, ol’ man Dort’s affection for him grew thinner an’ thinner. Some o’ the boys discovered him to be a woodchuck; but no one told of it for fear the old man would slaughter Eugene.

The old man kept on gettin’ barbered, so as to have the chance o’ clashin’ with Eugene about every subject which came up; but finally he got so he could be shaved in a decent, orderly manner without havin’ his head tied down to the rest. Him an’ Eugene was the most antagonistic fellers I ever met up with; but it was a long time before me an’ Spider could think up a way to get ’em fairly at it again.

One day Spider came ridin’ in from Danders, bubblin’ over with excitement, and yells out—“Pete Peabody’s got a freak guinea-pig.”

“That’s glorious news,” sez I. “Let’s get all the boys together an’ hold a celebration.”

“I guess a freak guinea-pig’s as worthy o’ bein’ commented on as airy other kind of freak,” sez Spider, stridin’ off to the corral, purty well pouted up.

He hadn’t more ’n reached it before an idee reached me, an’ I ran after him. “What is the’ freakish about this guinea-pig, Spider?” sez I.

“He’s got a tail,” snapped Spider.

“Ain’t they all got tails?” sez I.

“You know they ain’t,” he sez. “You remember what that feller from the East said last spring—if you hold up a guinea-pig by the tail, his eyes fall out, an’ then when we didn’t believe it, he told us they didn’t have no tails. Pete sez that this guinea-pig is the only one in the world what has a tail.”

“Do you reckon he’d sell it?”

“He’d sell the hair off his head,” sez Spider.

“Well, you go back there an’—But say, has Pete got any others?”

“He had ten when I left, an’ no knowin’ how many he’s got by this time. Pete sez ’at guinea-pigs is the prolificest things the’ is,” sez Spider.

“You buy three of ’em, Spider,” sez I; “a male one an’ a female one, an’ this here freak.”

“What do I want with ’em?” sez Spider.

“I’ll pay half, an’ show you how to make money out of ’em,” sez I.

“I don’t want to tinker with no such cattle as them,” sez Spider.

“You get a fresh pony, an’ it won’t take you no time at all,” sez I.

So Spider got the pony an’ went off grumblin’. When he brought ’em back he had ’em in a small box an’ they certainly was curious lookin’ insects. “I paid four bits apiece for the male an’ the female,” sez Spider, “an’ twenty-five real dollars for the freak.”

“If that’s the way prices run,” sez I, “it ain’t no wonder that guinea-pigs what are ambitious to be popular, are willin’ to give up the luxury o’ tails.”

“Now then, what in thunder are we goin’ to do with ’em?” sez Spider.

“Get a fresh pony,” sez I, “an’ we’ll go on over to Boggs.”

“You go to the equator!” yells Spider. “I ain’t had no sleep for a week.”

“Sleep,” sez I, “what’s the use o’ botherin’ about sleep? You keep on losin’ your strength this way, an’ in about a year they’ll be trundlin’ you around in a baby cart. All right then, you stay home an’ be company for the freak. We’ll hide him up in the attic so the rats can’t get him.”

“Oh I could stand it to go without sleep, if I saw any sense in it,” sez Spider; “but hanged if I’m goin’ to ride my bones through my skin just to please you.”

“Suit yourself,” sez I. “We’ll put the freak in the tin cake-box an’ punch a few holes in it to give him air. I’ll do that while you’re makin’ up your mind about goin’ along to Boggs.”

“What you goin’ to do with the male an’ the female?” sez Spider as I started away.

“I’m goin’ to sell ’em to Eugene,” I calls back over my shoulder, an’ then I knew I’d have company.

“I thought you was goin’ to Boggs,” sez Spider as soon as we had settled into a travelin’ trot. I allus find that I get along easier with people if I just leave ’em one or two items to puzzle over.

“Webb Station is closer,” sez I; “an’ if this deal causes any hard feelin’ it will be just as well not to be mixed up in it ourselves.”

“I thought you was goin’ to sell these to Eugene?” sez Spider.

“If you’d just go to sleep, Spider,” sez I, “it would save your brain the trouble o’ thinkin’ up a lot o’ thoughts which ain’t no use anyhow. I’m goin’ to let Shorty take ’em over this evenin’ an’ sell ’em to Eugene.”

“How do you know he wants ’em?”

“’Cause I know Eugene,” sez I. “I’ll fix up Shorty’s tale for him.”

Well, we explained to Shorty the bettin’ principle of guinea-pigs, an’ gave him the pigs, tellin’ him he could have all he won from Eugene on the first bet; but to then sell ’em to Eugene without lettin’ any o’ the other fellers know anything about it, an’ to make Eugene think that he had picked ’em up from a train passenger, not from us.

Shorty said that he’d go over that afternoon as soon as the passenger had gone—Shorty was the telegraph operator—so Spider an’ I came back, he sleepin’ all the way.

“Where do we come in on this deal?” sez Spider next day.

“We’ll give Eugene a chance to cut their hair a new way, an’ then we’ll go over to Boggs an’ line things up.”

“I’m beginnin’ to see how it could be worked out,” sez Spider, grinnin’.

In about a week we went over to Boggs, an’ found the town purty well deserted. We dropped into ol’ man Dort’s to compliment Columbus some an’ sympathize with Ben Butler a little, while tryin’ to hear if Eugene had made his play yet. The ol’ man was gloatin’ over the fact that Eugene wasn’t havin’ much trade, but he didn’t mention anything about guinea-pigs.

“You don’t seem rushed, yourself,” sez I.

“Course I ain’t,” he flares back. “Most o’ the fellers are still roundin’ up, an’ the rest are out huntin’ for Red Erickson.”

“Red been gettin’ thoughtless again?” sez I. Red Erickson was a big Dane who had the habit o’ runnin off stock an’ shootin’ any one who disagreed with him.

The ol’ man merely pointed to a paper pinned up on the wall offerin’ fifteen hundred dollars for Red, dead or alive. He hadn’t been operatin’ on Diamond Dot stuff, so we hadn’t paid much heed to him.

We strolled on over to Eugene’s an’ found him sittin’ down an’ talkin’ about the peculiar custom o’ guinea-pigs; so we knew that he had swallered the bait; but he didn’t offer to bet with us.

Then we went back an’ asked ol’ man Dort if he believed that a guinea-pig’s eyes would fall out if he was held up by the tail.

“It’s all rot!” sez the ol’ man, indignant. “Any one who sez such nonsense never studied the way eyes is fastened in. The tail ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”

“What kind o’ tails has guinea-pigs got?” sez I.

“Why they got—?” sez the ol’ man, an’ then stopped an’ looked blank. “What kind o’ tails have they got?”

“They haven’t got any,” sez I. “Now listen; would you be willin’ to risk a little money to even up with Eugene?”

“I’d risk every thing I got, down to my very hide,” sez the ol’ man, earnest to a degree.

“Well, then, you play careful an’ we’ll provide you with the cards,” sez I. “Eugene has some guinea-pigs, an’ he is plannin’ to string you on a bet. You come right along just as though you was as ignorant as you look, have a day fixed to decide the bet, let us know, an’ for the small sum of fifty dollars we’ll provide you with a guinea-pig which has a tail.”

“I’ll make a pauper out of him,” sez the ol’ man. “I haven’t had a chance to get a bet on Columbus since I owned him.”

“You just land Eugene,” sez I, “an’ that’ll be sport enough for one while.”

“I got shaved twice to-day,” sez the ol’ man feelin’ his chin, “’cause we got into a discussion about comets; but I reckon I can stand another to-morrow.”

The next day the old man asked Eugene what all kind o’ game grew in Africa. “Elephants, hippopotamusses an’ guinea-pigs,” sez Eugene.

“Guinea-pigs?” sez the ol’ man.

“Yes, they’re the most curious animals the’ is in existence,” sez Eugene.

“How big are they?” asked ol’ man Dort. He hadn’t an idea in the world, an’ was beginnin’ to think that if they sized up with elephants an’ hippopotamusses, he didn’t want to have to lift one by the tail to win his bet.

“They ain’t any bigger ’n young rabbits,” sez Eugene, stroppin’ his razor; “but the curious part of ’em is that if you hold up one by the tail, his eyes’ll drop out.”

“I’ll bet a hundred dollars they wouldn’t do it,” sez the ol’ man.

“That’s a safe enough bet,” sez Eugene, calm an’ easy. “They’re worth all the way up to five hundred dollars a pair, an’ it ain’t likely that a man would invest that amount in something, just to win a hundred-dollar bet.”

They sparred back an’ forth for a couple o’ days until finally Eugene bet nine hundred in cash—all he had in the world—an’ his shop an’ fixin’s, again’ eleven hundred dollars, that the old man couldn’t lift a guinea-pig by the tail without his eyes fallin’ out. If the ol’ man didn’t lift one by the tail, he lost the bet. They set the date for a week ahead, an’ the ol’ man bet Eugene three hundred dollars that he’d win the bet, takin’ Eugene’s promissory agreement for his end of it.

We brought in the freak the day before the contest an’ the ol’ man’s eyes lit up when he see the tail. It wasn’t much of a tail at that; but it was a sure enough tail an’ plenty long enough to lift him by, an’ strong enough too, an’ the’ was regular bones in it, just like any tail.

The’ was only a fair sized crowd of us on hand to see the test; but Eugene went through all the preliminaries, an’ then took the cover off his box an’ pointed to the guinea-pigs. He had shaved the parts of ’em where tails naturally belong, an’ when the boys see that they didn’t have no tails, they howled with laughter an’ began to hoot ol’ man Dort; an’ Eugene confided to ’em the plans he had for spendin’ the money he’d won.

Ol’ man Dort, he walked calmly up to the box, examined the guinea-pigs, an’ sez: “These here is not the full-blooded guinea-pigs. The full-blooded ones live in a mountainous? country an’ use their tails to steer with when they jump from rock to rock; while this kind live in swamps an’ the young alligators keep on eatin’ off their tails until they don’t have any. I’ll go get a thoroughbred an’ do my liftin’ on him.”

Well this set ’em back a good ways; an’ as the ol’ man was walkin’ off to get his own speciment, a good many bets was put up, but Eugene didn’t take any.

Purty soon, back come the ol’ man; an’ hanged if he hadn’t clipped the hair off o’ his one’s tail too. He reached in his hand an’ stroked the long-faced little duffer, an’ sez: “Gently, George the Third, gently.” Then he put on an anxious look an’ picked up the guinea-pig by the tail, holdin’ his other hand underneath to catch any eyes what happened to spill out. They didn’t none drop out, an’ the crowd give a cheer; but Eugene was all in.

He was a bad loser was Eugene, an’ he didn’t join in the festivities any. He just took up his two guineas an’ went back to his shop, while the rest of us celebrated a few. After a time me an’ Spider went to console with him a little. He was so infernally down in the mouth that I began to get a little conscience-struck. Eugene said he had been savin’ up his money to pay off the mortgage on his birthplace; an’ he made a purty sad story out of it. Fact was, that he made so sad a story out of it that I decided to get him back his tools and give him a new start.