Cicero Throgmartins'."
"What did he go there for?"
"Couldn't he'p hisse'f."
"Look here, you tell me what's happened."
"Mr. Bobbs ca'ied Tump thaiuh. Y' see, Mr. Throgmartin tried to hire
Tump to pick cotton. Tump didn't haf to, because he'd jes shot fo'
natchels in a crap game. So to-day, when Tump starts over heah wid his
gun, Mr. Bobbs 'resses Tump. Mr. Throgmartin bails him out, so now
Tump's gone to pick cotton fuh Mr. Throgmartin to pay off'n his fine."
Here Jim Pink yelped into honest laughter at Tump's undoing so that dust
got into his nose and mouth and set him sneezing and coughing.
"How long's he up for?" asked Peter, astonished and immensely relieved
at this outcome of Tump's expedition against himself.
Jim Pink controlled his coughing long enough to gasp:
"Th-thutty days, ef he don' run off," and fell to laughing again.
Peter Siner, long before, had adopted the literate man's notion of what
is humorous, and Tump's mishap was slap-stick to him. Nevertheless, he
did smile. The incident filled him with extraordinary relief and
buoyancy.
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