You Bet Bob from Cross Crick — page 2: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

bat — him. ' answered his fool-question. ‘was a plum fullness ov ther belluses. % sig shook: his head et wasn’t. ig’ * ” " + ' « Ls . =F. Pe ame om “ = Vr * < Gann” Fue ALS: 7% You Bet Bob from Gross Grick: OR, THE CALAMITY AT SAWBUCK CITY, BY ARIZONA CY. CHAPTER I. PREPARIN’ TO P’TIC’PATE. ‘ Bob,” said I, suddent, one mornin’, “Gunsight John has gone dead.” “Not Gunsight John, ther mayor ov Sawbuck City?” cried Bob, his under jaw droppin’ and hangin’ limber. “Ther same,” said I. ‘“‘ Ther news has jest been brought over from thar, and Sawbuck City is goin’ to have one ov ther bangupedest plantin’s on record.” “ Sho!’”’ sez Bob, plum dazed. “Ye shure don’t mean et, Cy Johnson? Not Gunsight John thet could lick his weight _ in Wildcats, and thet ‘lected himself may- or by lickin’ his ’ponent clean out’n his boots?” “Ther self-same,” said I. more, Bob, Cross Crick has got ter do herself handsome on thet occasion, and I move thet we ’p’int you and me a com- mittee ov two ter see thet our town is properly represented in ther procession, and sech.”’ “I second ther moshun, ” said Bob, prompt enough. ‘“ But, Cy, I can’t be- lieve et’s so,” he added. “Oh! et’s sure enough so,” I ’sured * Did he die with his boots on?” Bob asked me, wonderin’. “‘ Ye know he allus said he would never die no other man- ner.” “He died with ’em on,” said I, “ though it was a close call fer his not doin’ et, if ther report is true in every particular. He called fer ’em at ther last minute.” “ How was that?” Bob asked me. “Wull,” said I, “ ye see he was tooken down with nomoneya—” “Ther same as we wur tooken down at Hold-up on one ’casion,’”’ Bob made bold ter interrupt. “About ther same, only different,” I “That was a goneness of ther pockets, while this A disease.” “I see,” said Bob, ep glad ye do,” said I. “Proceed,” said Bob, some meeker. “Wull,” said at he got tooken with thet thar nomoneya, and et hit him hard. He died yisterdy. Jest ‘fore he sloped -off they seen thar was somethin’ he *peared ter want, and he seemed ter want et bad.” -_ “Mebby a parson?” Bob made bold again. “They asked him ef it was that, but It was somethin’ he wanted badder’n that.” * Mebby whisk?” said Bob. “‘ Jest what they thought et must be,” said I, cording to what I had heard ov ther facts ov ther case, “ but he sorter got mad an’ made ’em understand et was somethin’ he wanted a heap wuss’n whis- ky. They wur plum at loss then, as ye may be sure,” ‘*‘ What was et?” cried Bob, himself clean bewildered. “‘ What I told ye,” said I. “He want- ed his boots put on. Ye see, he had allus made his boast, same as fox said, that he would never die no other manner, and when they got his meanin’ it was plain enough that he wanted ’em ter pull -on his stogies fer him, so he could be as _ good as his word. Et must ’a’ been ‘a _ Rome moment, pards: i : Ties fon hate “ey q . are + rl a a A a fe + aT ve Pes xd er et *“ What is a J You Bet Bob from Croés Crick. a a ee ee ee “I don’t b’live he’d ’a’ died ef thay hadn’t ’bliged him,” said Bob. ‘‘ Jest as mébby as not,” said Il. “He was a man ov grit, and ef they hadn’t ‘bliged him, no tellin’ what moughtn’t happened. But they pulled ’em on fer him, so ther feller tells, and a seraffic smile spread over his countenance and he let go his hold and passed off as peaceful as a babe that lets go ther lug and drops ter sleep. Yes, he died with ’em on, but et was a close call fer et, as I told ye.” “ When is ther plantin’?”’ asked Bob. “Termorrer,” said I. “And et has been moved and second- ed that you an’ me go up thar as a com- mittee ov two from Cross Crick. All in favor ov that will signify by sayin’ Aye.” We said et both together, and ther mo- shun prevailed. e wur duly elected. By the way, dear reader, don’t pay any ‘tention to my spellin’. It is my own in- dividual and peculiar way. The editor of the Howler used ter lose a good deal ov sleep over my spellin’, settin’ up o’ nights to spell out ther words in my copy and make ’em straight, but he got tired ov it, and so did his readers, too. You see, I spell about as we talk out in these parts, and the boys like it a heap better’n the Websterian way. It is a sort ov short-hand system, and. it goes right to the spot every time. When the boys ov Cross Crick see a word ov mine in print they know at once what it means. This by the way. We'll now proceed, with ‘pology fer ther break. When me and Bob make up our minds ter do*a thing, that same thing most gen’ly comes ter pass. Havin’ made up our minds that we would ’tend ther funeral of ther late la- mefited Gunsight John, we further ‘p’inted ourselves a committee ov Ways and means fer ther ’casion. Ther matter rested doubly heavy on me. Not only had I ter do my share OV up- holdin ’ther dignity ov our town, but T had ter stand fer ther Howler as well. Bein’ reg’lar field correspondent ov ther Howler, I felt it restin’ heavy on me ter make ther best showin’ I could in ther interests ov the paper that eeyen me my salt. Me and Bob put our headé together, and we'decided that it would be ther proper caper if we went into mournin’ fer ther late lamented. We felt that we could do that up in a way to beat ther band. We might be able ter give Sawbuck City’ p’ints and still come aoe ahead at the close of the game. That was one p’int settled. ‘But what’s fer mournin’?” asked Bob ov me. “ What’s fer mournin’?” I said, over after him, ruther staggered. “Yes, what's fer mournin’?” “ Black, ov ccurse.” “Any durn ijjit would know that,” growled Bob. “Then why did ye ask me?” I de- manded ov him, thinkin’ I had one on him that time. “ ’Cause I ain’t a durn ijjit, and hence didn’t know,” he shot back at me, and I wilted and asked him forthwith what he would take that time. “JT know black’s fer mournin’,” he said after we had gone and indulged. “What I wanted ter come at was, whur are we goin ter git ther black? That is ther question before ther committee.” e had ter sera teh my head; es: was a av “a ae oie 4 ‘ a. a} 4% a) rf #4 " Nir, Lat hie { . ied Leal let a p AF A P aha had ‘ : at f \ ) A a) mys, ‘. ne \ ; wee ‘ ; { Oe me veh, rs his As ut Teel s ct a a i an thd bic Ln ve. ee g = ey ee peser, sure enough; whar was ther black ter come from? Then of a suddent it struck me, and I # slapped my pard on ther back and Ka- whooped around thar like ary Apache. “T have got et, Bob, I have got et!” I yelled. “Yes, ye act as if ye have,” said Bob, some sarcastic. “T plum shur have,” I declared, takin’ no notice of his hint. “ Well, what is et?” he asked. ‘Yer know Plug Simpson’s wife that went dead? ” said I. ‘‘Shur,” said he. ‘Well, yer know she used ter have a black gown fer Sunday best, don’t yer? ” * Jest ther thing!” yelled Bob, jumpin’ up and ka- -whoopin’ some himself. “We are in et, pard, clean up to our ears, and if we don’t make Sawbuck City dizzy et won’t be our fault.” “Tt plum shur won’t,’ I ’greed with him. So, off we sot ter find Plug Simpson. He was at his cabin, whur his wife had left him some weeks before with a couple ov kids on his hands ter take keer ov. I had writ ther late Mrs. Simpson up fine in ther Howler, and so stood in well with Plug, and when I worked around to ther matter in hand I touched ther harp, gently, as et wur, and won him over. Fur a triflin’ consideration we got all ther black thar was in ther cabin, ther ‘| which same ther late lamented had no furder use fer, and off we sot to our own wickiup to transform ther black gown and other trappin’s into funeral garb ther finest, CHAPTER IL. WHAR’IN WE SALLY FORTH. You’d orter seen me an’ Bob ther bai- anceov that day. Thar we sot on ther floor ov our bun-.. galow, cross-legged like a couple of tail- ors, a-conjurin’ and a-contrivin’ funeral trappin’s out’n that thar black stuff. ' Billup, that keeps ther only store hyer ji at Cross Crick, was somewhat s’prised when we dropped in on him and bought nigh-about his hull stock ov needles and thread ter begin with, but he would ’a’ been more s’prised ef he could ’a’ seen us about ther time we got well inter ther |. job. “Bob,” said I, “how are ye makin’ out?” **T’m alive yet,’ asserted Bob, straight- enin’ ther kinks out’n ther spine ov his back and. lookin’ up at me. “ How is et with you?” ‘‘Ditter,” said I. ‘I have stitched my fingers fast somethin’ less’n a thousand * times, and have not stitched ther bulge ov my shirt fast ter somethin’ else more’n a hundred.” “How d’ye think we are goin’ ter | look?” asked Bob. “We'll look plum gorjus,” I answered ° him. ‘“ Thar won’t be no flies on us.” “Think we'll be chief mourners? ” “T reckon we will.” So, thar we sot and made furbelows and thingumbobs galore, and we never stopped oncet till we run out ov black stuff and had ter call a halt. Then we got up and shook off ther. splinters and shavin’s, so ter say, and I. took ter myself what I had built, and’ Bob took ter himself what he had ‘built, and we surveyed it over sorter proud. “ Bob,” said I, full ov feelin’. “ Wull, ” said Bob, sober enough. ip Th Et m We “D’ye s’pose ther dead knows what is « Pei goin’ on hyer on earth?” We “ hist 6 peat said Bob, | sorter. ie! ) vl 2 BW * Sai - Br toh ie . 4 4oody po de EY 0) wes we ag PY was {es att, 5: / ete Stee - A ~ +e Yer, sy rhc NE - “comicbooks.com | —*