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Updated: June 25, 2025
Overholt gave him the almost unpronounceable name of some recently discovered substance, and smiled at his expression as he listened. "If that's its name," said the boy gravely, "it sounds like the way it smells. I wonder what a skunk's name is in science. But the flour paste's pretty bad too. You'll see!"
Of course Jimmy Skunk's story soon spread through the Green Forest, and Unc' Billy Possum's story soon spread over the Green Meadows, and so nobody knew what to believe or think. If Jimmy Skunk was right, why Peter Rabbit's queer story wasn't to be believed at all. If Unc' Billy was right, why Peter's story wasn't as crazy as it sounded.
Indeed, it was hinted in the wood and on the Green Meadows that not all of Jimmy Skunk's doings would bear the light of day. It was openly said that he was altogether too fond of prowling about at night, but no one could prove that he was responsible for mischief done in the night, for no one saw him. You see his coat was so black that in the darkness of the night it was not visible at all.
He gits drunk, beats 'Rill Scattergood, that was, and otherwise behaves himself like a hardened old villain." "Oh, Walky! I would not believe such things about Mr. Drugg not if he told them to me himself!" exclaimed Janice. "An' I reckon nobody would ha' dreamed sech things about him if Marm Scattergood hadn't got home from Skunk's Holler.
"I tell you ther' ain't nothin' fer it but to roll up to old blind hulks an' ast him to send us out. Ef this dog-gone skunk's let be, ther' ain't no stock safe. Guess I've had my med'cine from 'em, and I'm jest crazy fer more. I've had to do wi' fellers o' their kidney 'fore, I guess.
It was dead toil in the soft snow, and it was slow; for Macartney or no Macartney, there was no making time in the untrodden bush. I cut our way as short as I dared, but do the best I could it was dark when we came to that forlorn, evil hollow in the gap of desolate hills that Caraquet folk called Skunk's Misery.
Underneath the displaced litter, stuck sideways in a crack of the log floor, was a shiny, dirty white playing card. I pulled it out. And in the narrow white beam of my electric lantern I saw the missing two of hearts out of Thompson's pack! I saw more, too, before I even wondered how one of Thompson's cards had ever got to Skunk's Misery.
There ain't no liars up in our mountains 'cept them skunks in Gov'ment pay you fellers send up to us, and things like Hank Halliday. He's wuss nor any skunk. A skunk's a varmint that don't stink tell ye meddle with him, but Hank Halliday stinks all the time.
If the Frenchwoman's son were in with Collins in trying to hold up the La Chance gold, and was at Skunk's Misery now, I saw daylight, anyhow about the wolf dope. But the woman by the fire knocked that idea out of me, half-made. The Frenchwoman's son had not been there for two months past and had only come there at all to build a house. It was empty now, but no one had dared to go into it.
She pulled out a rag of fur from under her snow-caked sweater; and as the stale reek of the Skunk's Misery wolf dope rose from the thing, I knew the smell in the room had been no fancy, and how Dudley Wilbraham had died. I wheeled and saw Macartney's face, the face of a man who took me for a fool whose nose would tell him nothing. "D'ye mean that was all you found?" I got out. "No!
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