I never do hear of this gent ontil I'm cripplin' 'round on
them stilts of crutches; an' then I ain't informed of him none only
after he's informed of me.
"'Thar's a measley little limberjaw of a party whose name is Ike
Sparks; this Ike is allers runnin' about tellin' things an' settin'
traps to capture trouble for other folks. Ike is a ornery anamile--
little an' furtif--mean enough to suck aigs, an' cunnin' enough to
hide the shells. He hates everybody, this Ike does; an' he's as
suspicious as Bill Johnson's dog, which last is that doubtful an'
suspicious he shore walks sideways all his life for fear someone's
goin' to kick him. This low-down Ike imparts to Polly's other lover
about the state of my feelin's; an' then it ain't no time when I
gets notice of this sport's existence.
"'It's in the licker room of the tavern at Pine Knot, to which
scenes I've scrambled on them crutches one evenin', where this party
first meets up with me in person. He's a big, tall citizen with
lanky, long ha'r, an' is dressed in a blanket huntin' shirt an' has
a coon-skin cap with the tail hangin' over his left y'ear. Also, he
packs a Hawkins rifle, bullets about forty to the pound. For myse'f,
I don't get entranced none with this person's looks, an' as I ain't
fit, physical, for no skrimmage, I has to sing plumb low.
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