'If you don't pull your
freight, the branch'll get you. It's done riz over the stock of your
rifle.'
"'Water won't hurt the wood none,' says Grief.
"'You Grief over thar!' roars the other after awhile; 'your feet an'
laigs is half into the branch, an' the water's got up to the lock of
your gun.'
"'Thar's no load in the gun,' says Grief, still a-layin', 'an'
besides she needs washin' out. As for them feet an' laigs, I never
catches cold.'
"An' thar that ornery Grief reposes, too plumb lazy to move, while
the branch creeps up about him. It's crope up so high, final, that
his y'ears an' the back of his head is in it. All Grief does is sort
o' lift his chin an' lay squar', to keep his nose out so's he can
breathe.
An' he shorely beats the game; for the rain ceases, an' the branch
don't rise no higher. This yere Grief lays thar ontil the branch
runs down an' he's high an' dry ag'in, an' then the sun shines out
an' dries his clothes. It's that same night when Grief has drug
himse'f home to supper, he says to his wife, 'Thar's nothin' like
exercise,' an' then counsels that lady over his corn pone an'
chitlins to take in washin' like I relates."
We walked on in mute consideration of the extraordinary indolence of
the worthless Mudlow.
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