Yes, this was about the time I got interested in the bettin’ barber over at Boggs. He hasn’t anything to do with this story I’m about to tell ya, except that it was him ’at give the Friar his name; so I’ll just skim through this part as hasty as possible. When a feller is tellin’ me a story, I want him to stick to the trail of it; but it seems like when I try to tell one, myself, some feller is allus askin’ me a question ’at takes me clear out o’ range.

All barbers are more or less different, except in what might be called the gift o’ gab. This one came out to Boggs station, an’ started a shop. His name was Eugene, an’ he was a little man with two rollin’ curls to his front hair, which he wore short behind. A curious thing about little men is, that they don’t never find it out. A little man produces more opinions ’n airy other kind, an’ being small, they haven’t no place to store ’em up until they get time to ripen. A little man gives out his opinion an’ then looks savage—just as if he’d get a switch an’ make ya believe it, whether you wanted to or not.

Eugene had come from every city the’ is in the world, an’ he used to tell scandalous tales about the prominent people who lived in ’em whose hair he had cut. He was also familiar with the other things which had happened since they’ve begun to write history, an’ if any one would doubt one of his statements, he’d whirl about holding up his razor, an’ say: “I’ll bet ya a dollar I can prove it.”

All of us fellers used to go in as often as we got a chance to get our chins shaved an’ our hair shampooed—just to hear Eugene get indignant about things which wasn’t none of our business. We used to bet with him a lot, just for the fun o’ makin’ him prove up things; which he did by writin’ letters to somebody an’ gettin’ back the answers he wanted. We didn’t have any way to prove our side; so Eugene got the money an’ we had the fun.

Ol’ man Dort ran the general store and kept a pet squirrel in a whirlabout cage, which was the biggest squirrel I ever see, an’ had its tail gnawed off by a rat, or something, before Eugene came. Ol’ man Dort had a reputation for arguin’, which spread all over our part of the earth. We had made a habit o’ goin’ to him to get our discussions settled an’ when we began to pass him up for Eugene, he foamed about it free an’ frank.

He wore a prodigious tangle o’ hair and a bunch o’ grizzled whiskers, about as fine an’ smooth as a clump o’ grease-wood. He used to brag that razor nor scissors hadn’t touched his hide for twenty years, an’ one of us boys would allus add, “Nor soap nor water, neither,” an’ ol’ man Dort would grin proud, ’cause it was a point of honor with him.

Eugene used to send out for his wearin’ an’ sech, so ol’ man Dort didn’t get a whack at him in his store; ol’ man Dort batched, an’ Eugene boarded, so they didn’t clash up at their meals; an’ finally ol’ man Dort swore a big oath that he was goin’ to be barbered. The news got out an’ the boys came in for forty miles to see the fun—an’ it was worth it.

We went early to the shop an’ planted ourselves, lookin’ solemn an’ not sayin’ anything to put Eugene on his guard. When at last ol’ man Dort hove in sight with his brows scowled down an’ his jaws set under his shrubbery, we all bit our lips; an’ Eugene stopped tellin’ us about the hair-roots o’ the Prince of Wales, an’ stood lookin’ at ol’ man Dort with his mouth gapped wide open.

The ol’ man came in, shut the door careful behind him, glared at Eugene, as though darin’ him to do his worst, an’ said: “I want my hair shamped, an’ my whiskers shaved off.”

“If you expected to get it all done in one day, you should ought to have come earlier,” sez Eugene soberly, but tossin’ us a side wink.

“Well, you do as much as you can to-day, an’ we’ll finish up to-morrow,” sez ol’ man Dort, not seein’ the joke.

Ol’ man Dort peeled off his coat, rolled up his sleeves, an’ climbed into the chair as if he thought it was liable to buck him off. Then he settled back with a grunt, an’ Eugene tucked the bib in around his neck, combed his fingers through ol’ man Dort’s hair a minute, an’ sez; “Your hair’s startin’ to come out. You should ought to use a tonic.”

“Tonic, hell!” snaps the ol’ man. “My hair sheds out twice a year, same as the rest o’ the animals.”

“Then you should ought to comb it,” sez Eugene. “I’ve got some hair here in my hand which was shed out two years ago. Leavin’ dead hair an’ such rubbish as that layin’ around on your scalp is what kills the hair globules.”

“It don’t either; it acts like fertilizer, the same as dead grass does,” sez ol’ man Dort. He had made up his mind to take the contrary side of everything ’at Eugene said, an’ it was more fun than a dog fight.

Eugene started in by mowin’ away the whiskers, an’ it was a long an’ painful job; ’cause it was almost impossible to tell where they left off an’ ol’ man Dort began, an’ then they was so cluttered up with grit an’ dead hair and kindry deb-ris that his scissors would choke up an’ pull, an’ then ol’ man Dort would bob up his head an’ yell out a bunch o’ profanity, and Eugene would stand back an’ say that he was a barber, not a clearer of new ground, an’ that the job ought to be done with a scythe and hoe, not with scissors an’ razor. Eugene wasn’t covetous of ol’ man Dort’s trade an’ didn’t care whether he insulted him or not.

The most fun came, though, after Eugene had got down to where he could tell the outline of ol’ man Dort’s face. First he soaked it with lather, combin’ it in with a comb, an’ puttin’ hot towels on it to draw out the alkalie grit an’ give his razors some show.

One of ol’ man Dort’s manias was, that a man ought to pay his debts, whether it killed him or not; so as soon as Eugene had him steamin’ under the towels we begun to talk about a man’s first duty bein’ toward his kin, an’ that if he couldn’t pay his debts without bother, he ought to let the debts go an’ show his relatives a good time while they was still on earth an’ able to enjoy themselves.

Ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it, an’ tried to answer back from under the towels; but got his mouth full o’ suds, an’ choked on the corner of a towel until Eugene said that if he couldn’t sit still an’ behave himself he could go out to some alfalfa farmer to get his tonsoral work completed.

It wasn’t the ol’ man’s fault—he simply couldn’t help it. Touch him up on a ticklish subject, an’ he just had to come back at ya, same as a rattler. Finally, however, Eugene had the stubble wore down an’ softened until he decided that he stood a chance again’ it, an’ then he lathered an’ rubbed, an’ lathered an’ rubbed, until nothin’ stuck out below ol’ man Dort’s eyes except the peak of his nose; an’ then us boys pulled out our trump card an’ played it strong. We began to talk about red squirrels.

Now, we didn’t know anything professional about squirrels, except what ol’ man Dort had told us; but we slewed his talk around this way an’ that as if it was our own private opinions; an’ the ol’ man began to groan audible. He gritted his teeth, though, an’ bore up under it like a hero, until Eugene begin to chip in with what he knew about squirrels.

Eugene was never content to just speak of a thing in a general way—his main method of convincin’ us was to allus fall back on his own personal experience; so this time he began to tell of squirrels what he had been full acquainted with. He called ’em by name an’ told how they would run to meet him an’ climb up on his shoulders an’ chatter for nuts, an’ so on; until the ol’ man’s ears turned red with the strain he was under. And then, we got to discussin’ the size o’ squirrels.

We told about squirrels we had heard about, an’ contested again’ each other to see which had heard o’ the biggest one; but we never even mentioned ol’ man Dort’s squirrel. Eugene had shaved his way down to below the lobe of ol’ man Dort’s right ear, slippin’ in a side remark to our talk every minute or so; an’ purty soon he sez ’at he knows a squirrel by the name o’ Daniel Webster back in Montpelier, Vermont, which was a full half inch longer ’n airy red squirrel we had spoke of. The ol’ man couldn’t stand this. His head bobbed up, cuttin’ a gash on the crook of his jaw, and as soon as he could blow the foam out of his mouth, he sez, “I’ll stake my life, the’ ain’t another squirrel in this country as big as my own Ben Butler.”

Eugene put his hand on ol’ man Dort’s forehead an’ pushed him back into the headrest. “You lie there,” sez he, “until I get done shavin’ ya. Then, I’ll bet ya a dollar that I can produce a livin’ squirrel which’ll out-stand, outweigh, an’ out-fight your squirrel—an’ I ain’t never seen your squirrel.”

“A dollar!” snorts the ol’ man, flickin’ up his head. “I wouldn’t bother wakin’ Ben Butler up for a measly dollar. I’ll bet ya ten dollars.”

“Get back on that headrest,” orders Eugene. “Ten dollars looks a heap sight better to me than one, an’ I’ll be mighty glad to accommodate ya.”

Eugene took his fire-stick an’ burned the ol’ man’s cut, an’ the ol’ man had to scruge up his shoulders with the pain of it; but he did it without noticin’, ’cause his mind was on squirrels. “What breed o’ squirrels is yours?” he asked.

“If you don’t keep your head where I put it, I’ll throw up the job an’ let you go forth lookin’ like the lost Goog o’ Mayhan,” sez Eugene, raisin’ his voice. Ol’ man Dort was a whalin’ big man, an’ it tickled us a heap to see little Eugene givin’ him directions, like as if he was nothin’ but a pup dog.

Ol’ man Dort settled back with a sigh, an’ Eugene leathered up his razor without sayin’ anything for a minute or two. Then he sez, as he begins shavin’ again: “That squirrel I have in mind for ring contests is the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel; and it’s the biggest breed of squirrels the’ is.”

“The’ ain’t no such a breed of squirrel as that!” yells ol’ man Dort, springing erect in his chair, an’ dullin’ Eugene’s razor by the operation.

Eugene stepped back an’ looked at the blood flowin’ from the fresh cut, an’ he sez slow an’ sarcastic; “If it don’t make any difference to you whether you have any skin on your face or not, why I’ll just peel it off an’ tack it on a board to shave it; but hanged if I’m goin’ to duck around tryin’ to shave you on the jump. The’ is too grizzly ground-squirrels.”

Well, that’s the way they had it back and forth: every time they would settle down to business an’ Eugene would get a square inch o’ the ol’ man’s face cleared up, one of us boys would speak something in a low tone about there bein’ rumors of an uncommon big squirrel out at some ranch house a hundred miles or so from there. Eugene would ask what breed of squirrel it was, an’ then decide that it couldn’t be a patchin’ on a genuwine short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ then ol’ man Dort couldn’t stand it no longer an’ he would forget what he was doin’, bob up in his chair, an’ lose some more of his life fluid.

Eugene scraped down both sides o’ the ol’ man’s face, givin’ all of his razors a chance to take part in the job, an’ then he set his lips an’ started in on the chin.

“What does short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrels eat, Eugene?” asked Spider Kelley, as innocent as an infant pigeon.

“They eat chickens,—” began Eugene, but ol’ man Dort flew clean out o’ the chair an’ stood over Eugene shakin’ with rage.

“Chickens?” he roars. “Chickens! The’ never was a squirrel foaled into this world what et chickens.”

Eugene looked at ol’ man Dort, an’ then he wiped his razor an’ sat down on a chair, so full of disgust that he could hardly breathe.

“I wish you’d take off that apron an’ bleed into the spittoon,” he said as calm as he could. “I’ve got customers whose patronage is what makes up my living expenses; an’ I don’t want ’em to come in here an’ see the whole place a welter of gore.

“What do you think this shop is, anyway?” yelled Eugene springing to his feet an’ entirely losin’ his patience. “Do you think that I make my livin’ by grubbin’ down wire grass which has been let grow for fifty years, an’ educatin’ ignoramuses in the knowledge of squirrels? I don’t care whether you believe in short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrels or not; but if you don’t let me tie your head down to that chair, I won’t shave another sprout off your chin. I take some pride in my profession, an’ I don’t intend to have no man go out o’ my shop leavin’ a trail o’ blood which will draw all the dogs for miles around. Now, you can take your choice.”

Ol’ man Dort had to give in that this was reasonable enough; so he climbed back into the chair, an’ Eugene tied down his head an’ finished him off without any more trouble. As soon as he had stopped the bleedin’ an’ put on the perfume an’ oil an’ powder, he sez: “Now, what I am goin’ to do is to get some nourishment to recuperate back my strength, an’ if you want the waste products washed out o’ your hair, you come back here at one o’clock prompt.”

“I want to settle on that bet first,” said ol’ man Dort, who was just as pernicious as Eugene, once you got him riled up.

“I’ll make that bet with you after dinner,” sez Eugene, “but first off I got to have food; I’m faint with weakness. Now, I’m goin’ to lock up my shop.”

After Eugene had marched off to his boardin’ house, we all gathered around ol’ man Dort, an’ complimented him on his improved appearance, though to be strictly honest, the’ was considerable doubts about it. He had two teeth out in front, an’ the tobacco habit; and now, with no shrubbery to catch the spray, he spluttered terrible when he tried to talk fast. He said, though, that as long as he had started in he intended to take the full course, an’ was comin’ back, as soon as he’d had a bite to eat, to get his hair laundried an’ trimmed up some around the edges; an’ then he was goin’ to make that bet about the squirrels.

It was some amusin’ to see the ol’ man get his hair sluiced out, but not near as much fun as seein’ him shaved. Whenever Eugene found any stray product, he’d call us all over an’ show it to us, an’ this riled the ol’ man up considerable; but the best joke was when Eugene found a woman’s hairpin.

The ol’ man vowed an’ declared an’ carried on somethin’ fierce; but there was the hairpin, an’ we made him pay for three rounds on the strength of it. As soon as Eugene was all through, the ol’ man settled the bill, payin’ for a full day’s work like a regular sport, an’ not tryin’ to beg off at the ordinary retail price; and then he hardened his face an’ sez: “Now I bet you ten dollars, that you can’t bring forward a squirrel as big as my Ben Butler.”

“I’ll take that bet,” sez Eugene, “but you got to give me time to locate a short-tailed grizzly. It’s the scarcest breed the’ is, an’ it’ll probably cost me twice the sum to get one, but I don’t care about that. What I want is to vindicate myself. I’d like to see that squirrel o’ yours.”

“You come right along,” sez ol’ man Dort, glowin’ with pride. “I reckon when you see him, you’ll just hand over the money at once—That is, if you know anything at all about squirrels.”

We all marched around to the general store, an’ ol’ man Dort pounded on the cage. When Ben Butler sat up an’ looked around to see what was up, the ol’ man waved his hand at him, looked down at Eugene, an’ sez: “Well?” He said it just like that: “Wu-el?”

Ben Butler was rollin’ fat, an’ he certainly did look like some squirrel to us; but Eugene merely glanced at him, an’ sez: “Hum, what we call a dwarf red squirrel, up in Nova Scotia. They have tails, though, up there.”

The ol’ man spluttered till we had to pound him on the back. “Dwarf?” he chokes out. “Dwarf! You produce a squirrel to match him, will ya, or else you pack up your truck an’ move on. I don’t intend to have no—”

“See here, ol’ man,” sez Eugene, pointin’ a finger at him the same as if he’d been a naughty child. “A short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel is from two to four times as big as this one, so if you want to sidestep the bet, you can do it; but if you want to have some show for your money, I bet you fifty to ten that I can get a squirrel three times as big as this one. I own up that for its kind, this squirrel is of fair, average growth; but—”

“I’ll take that bet!” yelled the old man. “We’ll put up our money with Ike Spargle this minute; but I don’t want your odds. I’ll bet you even money.”

Eugene shook his head as if he pitied the ol’ man, an’ he sez, “Haven’t you never travelled none, or seen a zoological garden?”

“Yes, I’ve travelled some, an’ I’ve seen all kinds o’ gardens,” flares back the ol’ man; “but what I want now is to fix up this bet.”

“Who’ll be the judges?” sez Eugene.

“I don’t care a snap. Any man who can see through the holes in a ladder’ll be able to decide between the claims o’ two squirrels. Ike Spargle an’ Bill Thompson can be the judges.”

“There has to be three,” sez Eugene. “We’ll have Dan Stedman be the other.”

So they put up the money an’ Eugene was to have six weeks to get his squirrel; an’ from that on we begun to divide up into rival camps. The’ wasn’t any tree squirrels out in that neck o’ the woods, an’ we had all forgot what wild squirrels really was like. We knew the’ was ground-squirrels, red squirrels, gray squirrels, an’ flyin’-squirrels—although an argument was started about there bein’ flyin’-fish all right, but no flyin’-squirrels, which would have ended in warfare if Eugene hadn’t been handy to settle it.

You wouldn’t think that a little thing like a bet about the size of a squirrel would take the way it did; but Eugene was so confident on his side, an’ ol’ man Dort was so dead sure of Ben Butler, that the rest of us split up an’ we each had a little side bet on the outcome. It seemed a tarnation long time while we was waitin’; but in a little over a month, Eugene got a big box which he took into his back room without lettin’ even the fellers who had backed his squirrel get a peep at it.

From that on we got shaved twice a day an’ our heads washed till the hair started to change color; so that Eugene’s trade was so improved that even if he lost the bet, he was money ahead; but he scoffed the idy o’ losin’ the bet, even after his squirrel arrived; and as he was the only man who had seen both the contestants, he had the whole country up in the air.

Ol’ man Dort had made his squirrel run around the wheel four hours a day, pokin’ him up with a stick when he got lazy; an’ this gave Ben Butler sech a prodigious appetite that the ol’ man had to set up late at night to give him an extra meal. As the day o’ settlement came closer, the ol’ man tapered off on the exercise, an’ doubled up on the feed, until Ben Butler looked a full size larger, an’ us fellers who had our money on Eugene’s squirrel began to get shaky. If it had been just an even race, it would have been a fair deal; but to have to show a squirrel three times larger than Ben Butler seemed an impossibility.

Eugene had been fussin’ over his entry too, an’ we used to sneak up behind his shop at nights to listen to him. We could hear him snippin’ with scissors and pullin’ stoppers out o’ bottles and when he was through he’d say: “Stand up there, Columbus”—which was the name of his champion, an’ then he would seem to pass in a bunch o’ feed, an’ say—“Good boy, Columbus! that dwarf red squirrel can turn a double handspring in your shadder.”

This used to hearten us up again, and we’d lay a little more money on Eugene’s squirrel. Ike, an’ Bill, an’ Dan—the judges—said that they didn’t claim to know anything about the breeds o’ squirrels, an’ all they was to judge on was the size, which would be settled by weight if the’ was any dispute. They got kind o’ nervous toward the end, ’cause the fellers were all on edge, an’ a rank decision meant trouble in bunches.

When the final day o’ settlement arrived, Boggs was seven deep with fellers on edge to see the outcome. Most of us had all we could spare hung up in bets; but the’ was still a lot o’ coin in the crowd, and a crew came over from Cheyenne to take charge of it.

They had a game which certainly was attractive, I’ll say that much for it. It was a round board full o’ numbers, and up the middle was a tower with slopin’ sides covered with nails. A marble was dropped into a hole at the top and bobbled on the nails until it went into a row of holes at the bottom, and came out in a groove leadin’ to one o’ the numbers. Some o’ these numbers doubled the player’s money, some of ’em paid it over to the table; but most of ’em was neutral, and a feller had to double what he already had up, in order to stand a show. It was an innocent-appearin’ game, but deceptive. When a feller had up all he could raise, some stranger would offer him two bits for his chance, put up the doublin’ money—and win. This was a capper o’ course; but crowds don’t have any sense when they start gamblin’, and this crew was cleanin’ us out until, all of a sudden, I heard a clear, low-toned voice say: “If one o’ you boys would upset that table, you’d see the lever which controls the marble.”

I glanced up, and there was the Singin’ Parson, as cool as a frozen fish. Ol’ Tom Williams, commonly known as “Tank,” had just lost six dollars, and he upset the table and saw just how tight braced the blame game was. Then he unlimbered his gun, and suggested that he would feel calmer if he had the six dollars back, and the Cheyenne gambler looked into Tank’s free eye, which was pointin’ at the ceilin’, and he seconded Tank’s motion. After this the rest o’ the boys collected what they felt was due ’em, and the Cheyenne crowd had to fall back on charity for their noon lunch.

Just about one o’clock, the head crook saw the Singin’ Parson standin’ close to Eugene’s barber shop. The shop was locked, and the crowd around was lookin’ at it. The crook didn’t want to attract any attention; so, instead o’ usin’ a gun, he struck at the Parson with a club. He miscalculated, and hit the shoulder instead o’ the head. The Parson whirled, grabbed the club with his left hand, and the crook’s shirt collar with his right. The crook started to pull; but we settled down on him, and were all ready to serve out justice, when the Parson interrupted to say that it was none of our business, and if we’d just form a ring, he’d settle it to everybody’s satisfaction. He said he expected to live among us for the rest of his life, and this would be a good time to introduce his methods.

We took off the crook’s weapons, and then formed a big ring. The Parson was smilin’ a business-like smile, while the crook was palin’ up noticeable. “I am convinced that a man must settle some things, himself, in a new country,” sez the Parson. “I am larger than you, so it is fair for you to use this club; but I warn you in advance that I understand how to guard again’ clubs, so do your best. I’m ready, begin.”

It was quite eddifyin’ to behold: the crook made a vicious smash at the Parson’s head, the Parson bent his arm at the elbow, muscle out, so the bone wouldn’t get bruised, stepped in, and hit the crook a swing in the short ribs. Some say it lifted him ten feet, some say only eight; but any way, when he lit, he gave a grunt like an empty barrel, and the Parson had no trouble in layin’ him over his knee and givin’ him the most liberal spankin’ with that club I ever was spectator to; while the crowd howled itself hoarse in the throat.

Now the Parson wasn’t angry, he grinned all the way through, and when he had taken as much exercise as he felt was good for him, he set the crook on his feet, and talked fatherly advice to him as sober an’ dignified as was possible—considerin’ the fact that the crook was dancin’ about like a spider on a hot skillet, and rubbin’ the part which had got most intimate with the club.

Eugene had seen it all through his window, and when it was over, he came out and shook the Parson’s hand, and said he was just the kind needed in such an ungodly community, and that he reminded him for all the world of Friar Tuck in Robin Hood. Now, we hadn’t none of us heard of Friar Tuck up to that time; but it was a name well fitted to the tongue, and from the way Eugene said it, we elected it was a compliment; so we gave it to the Singin’ Parson on the spot, and it soaked into his bones, and he hasn’t needed any other since.

This little incident kept us all in a good humor until three o’clock, which was the fatal hour for the squirrel-contest.

Then ol’ man Dort marched to the center o’ the street, carryin’ his cage as though it was full o’ diamonds; an’ Ben Butler sat up an’ chattered as if he was darin’ the whole race o’ squirrels to bring forth his equal.

“I don’t reckon a squirrel could get three times as big as him without explodin’,” sez Spider Kelley, who also had his money on Eugene’s squirrel.

“Here comes Eugene with Columbus,” sez I, not carin’ to waste breath on an opinion I had backed up with good money.

Eugene came down the street carryin’ one end of a box, with Doc Forbes carryin’ the other. The box was covered with a clean apron, an’ Eugene wasn’t lookin’ down in the mouth or discouraged.

“From the size o’ that box, we’re goin’ to have a run for our money,” sez Spider. “If Columbus just looks good enough to make ’em settle by the scales, I haven’t any kick comin’.”

Well, as Eugene drew closer, that crowd fell into a silence until all a body could hear was Ben Butler braggin’ about all the nuts he had et, an’ what a prodigious big squirrel he was; but Eugene never faltered. He walked up an’ set his box down careful, motioned Doc over to the side lines, made a graceful motion to ol’ man Dort, an’ sez: “As yours is the local champion you introduce him first, an’ make your claim.”

Ol’ man Dort removed his tobacco, wiped his forehead, an’ sez: “Feller citizens, I make the claim that Ben Butler is the biggest full-blooded squirrel ever sent to enlighten the solitude of lonely humanity. This is him.”

The ol’ man looked lovin’ly down at his squirrel, an’ we every one of us gave a rousin’ cheer. It was all the family the ol’ man had, an’ it meant more to him ’n a body who hadn’t never tried standin’ his own company months at a time could realize. Ol’ man Dort thrust some new tobacco into his face, bit his lips, winked his eyes rapid, an’ bowed to us, almost overcome.

Then Eugene stepped a space to the front, bowed to the crowd in several directions, an’ sez: “Gentlemen, an’ feller citizens—From Iceland’s icy mountains to India’s coral strands an’ Afric’s sunny fountains, every nation an’ every clime has produced some peculiar product o’ nature which lifts it above an’ sets it apart from all the other localities of the globe. When you speak of the succulent banana, the golden orange, or the prickly pineapple, Nova Scotia remains silent; but when you speak of varmints, she rears up on her hind legs and with a glad shout of triumph, she hands forth the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel, an’ sez, ‘Give me the blue ribbons, the gold medals, an’ the laurel crowns of victory.’ I have the rare pleasure an’ the distinctive honor of presenting to your notice Columbus, the hugest squirrel ever exhibited within the confines of captivity.”

We was so took by Eugene’s eloquence that we hardly noticed him slip the apron from in front of his cage; but when we did look, we could hardly get our breath. I was standin’ close to the Friar; and at first he looked puzzled, and then his face lit up with a regular boy’s grin; but he didn’t say a word.

Columbus was certainly a giant; he stood full two feet tall as he sat up an’ scrutinized around with a bossy sort of grin. He was dappled fawn color on the sides with a curly black streak down the back an’ sort o’ chestnut-red below, with a short tail an’ teeth like chisels. He won so blame easy that even us what had bet on him didn’t cheer.

Ol’ man Dort give a grin, thinkin’ Ben Butler must have won, an’ then he stepped around an’ looked into Eugene’s cage. He looked first at Columbus, an’ then at Ben Butler, then he looked again. “That damned thing ain’t alive,” he sez. “It’s made up out o’ wool yarn. Poke it up an’ let me see it move.”

“Poke it yourself,” sez Eugene. He was one o’ these cold-blooded gamblers who ain’t got one speck o’ decent sentimentality; an’ he was mad ’cause we hadn’t cheered.

Ol’ man Dort took a stick an’ poked Columbus, an’ Columbus give a threatenin’ grin, chattered savage, an’ bit the stick in two. “Give him the money, Ike,” sez ol’ man Dort. “I own up I never was in Nova Scotia, an’ I never supposed that such squirrels as this grew on the face o’ the whole earth. What’ll you take for him?” he sez to Eugene.

“It ain’t your fault that you didn’t know about him,” sez Eugene, thawin’ a little humanity into himself. “I don’t want to rub it in on nobody; and I’ll give you this here squirrel free gratis, ’cause I admit that you know more about squirrels ’n anybody else what ever I met; an’ you have the biggest red squirrel the’ is in the world.”

Then we did give Eugene a cheer, an’ everything loosened up, an’ we all crowded into Ike Spargle’s so that them what won could spend a little money on them what lost.

After a time, ol’ man Dort got up on a chair, an’ sez: “I want you fellers to know that Columbus won’t never be my pet. Ben Butler has been the squarest squirrel ever was, an’ he continues to remain my pet; but I’ll study feedin’ this condemned foreign squirrel, an’ give him a fair show; so that if any outsiders come around makin’ brags, we will have a home squirrel to enter again’ ’em an’ get their money.”

Eugene led the cheerin’ this time, which made Eugene solider than ever with the boys, an’ when Spider an’ me got ready to ride home, he an’ ol’ man Dort had their arms around each other tryin’ to sing the Star Spangled Banner.

Spider talked about Columbus most o’ the way home, but I was still. The’ was somethin’ peculiar about the Friar’s grin when he first sighted Columbus, and the’ was somethin’ familiar about that squirrel, an’ I was tryin’ to adjust myself. Just as we swung to the west on the last turn, I sez to Spider: “Spider, I don’t know what I ought to do about this?”

“About what?” sez Spider.

“About this bet?”

“Well, it was a fair bet, wasn’t it? Columbus is full four times as big as Ben Butler.”

“Yes,” sez I, “but he ain’t no squirrel.”

Spider pulled up to a stop. “Ain’t no squirrel?” he sez. “What do you take me for, didn’t I see him myself? What is he then?”

“He’s a woodchuck, that’s what he is,” sez I. “He’s a genuwine ground hog with his hair cut stylish and died accordin’ to Eugene’s idy of high art. I remember now that I used to see ’em when I was a little shaver back on my dad’s farm in Indiana.”

Spider give a whoop, an’ then he laughed, an’ then he sobered up, an’ sez: “Well, you can’t do nothin’ now, anyway. The judges have decided it, ol’ man Dort has give it up, it ain’t your game nohow, an’ if you was to try to equal back those bets after they have been paid an’ mostly spent, you’d start a heap o’ blood-spillin’; an’ furthermore, as far as I’m concerned, I ain’t right sure but what a woodchuck, as you call it, ain’t some kind of a squirrel. We’ll just let this go an’ wait for a chance to put something over on Eugene.”

So that’s what we made up to do; but this gives you an idy of how fine a line the Friar drew on questions o’ sport. He knew ’at we weren’t full fledged angels, and that we had to have our little diversities; but when any professional hold-up men tried to ring in a brace game on us, he couldn’t see any joke in it, and he upset the money-changers’ tables, the same as they was upset that time, long ago, in the temple.