When I say he
unloaded a map of that Lost Injun mine, with the very spot marked with
a red cross, anybody'll understand that the paralysis hadn't affected
his head none.
You see, he was so quiet and patient under his afflictions, and he
talked it off so smooth, that the flyest gent that ever lived could be
excused for slippin' up and gettin' stuck in the discourse before he
knew that gravitation was workin' at the same old stand.
Now, for a straight-away dream-builder give me Aggy. He could talk the
horns off a steer, and that steer would beller with happiness to think
he was rid of a nuisance.
Ag stood six-foot-two by two-foot-six, and when he had the long-tailed
coat, the plug hat, and his general-in-the-army whiskers working right,
he only had to stick one hand in his vest and begin, "Fellow-Citizens
and Gentlemen," and he could start anything from a general war to a
barber-shop expedition to gather North Poles.
Give him a good, honest, upright gang of men that would weigh two
hundred a head, and Aggy could romp with their money or them, so the
worst used monkey in the cage would go home pleased.
Ag was built to play with huskies, not paralytics; so one day when he
stooped and turned sideways to get into the paralytic's room, treadin'
soft on the boards so's not to land the outfit in the cellar, the sight
of the poor sick man lyin' there--everlastingly lyin'--his helpless
hands turned palm up on the covers, why, old Ag's heart was touched.
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