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I never could understand why some men who can break a mustang before breakfast and shave in the dark, get all left-handed and full of perspiration and excuses when they see a bold of calico draped around what belongs to it. Inside of eight minutes me and Miss Willella was aggravating the croquet balls around as amiable as second cousins.
I watched him as he began to arrange them leisurely and untie their many strings. "No, not a story," said Jud, as he worked, "but just the logical disclosures in the case of me and that pink-eyed snoozer from Mired Mule Canada and Miss Willella Learight. I don't mind telling you. "I was punching then for old Bill Toomey, on the San Miguel.
One of us is bound to get a rope over its horns before long. Well, so-long, Jacksy. "You see, by this time we were on the peacefullest of terms. When I saw that he wasn't after Miss Willella, I had more endurable contemplations of that sandy-haired snoozer. In order to help out the ambitions of his appetite I kept on trying to get that receipt from Miss Willella.
Start her off, now pound of flour, eight dozen eggs, and so on. How does the catalogue of constituents run? "'Excuse me for a moment, please, says Miss Willella, and she gives me a quick kind of sideways look, and slides off the stool. She ambled out into the other room, and directly Uncle Emsley comes in in his shirt sleeves, with a pitcher of water.
'I'll get it for you if I can, and glad to oblige. And he turned off down the big pear flat on the Piedra, in the direction of Mired Mule; and I steered northwest for old Bill Toomey's ranch. "It was five days afterward when I got another chance to ride over to Pimienta. Miss Willella and me passed a gratifying evening at Uncle Emsley's.
Is old Bill going to ship beeves to Kansas City again this spring, Jud? "That was all the pancake specifications I could get that night. I didn't wonder that Jackson Bird found it uphill work. So I dropped the subject and talked with Uncle Emsley for a while about hollow-horn and cyclones. And then Miss Willella came and said 'Good-night, and I hit the breeze for the ranch.
"So, along about ten o'clock, I put on a wheedling smile and says to Miss Willella: 'Now, if there's anything I do like better than the sight of a red steer on green grass it's the taste of a nice hot pancake smothered in sugar-house molasses. "Miss Willella gives a little jump on the piano stool, and looked at me curious. "'Yes, says she, 'they're real nice.
Jackson said that whenever you got overhot or excited that wound hurt you and made you kind of crazy, and you went raving about pancakes. He told us to just get you worked off of the subject and soothed down, and you wouldn't be dangerous. So, me and Willella done the best by you we knew how. Well, well, says Uncle Emsley, 'that Jackson Bird is sure a seldom kind of a snoozer."
What did you say was the name of that street in Saint Louis, Mr. Odom, where you lost your hat? "'Pancake Avenue, says I, with a wink, to show her that I was on about the family receipt, and couldn't be side-corralled off of the subject. 'Come, now, Miss Willella, I says; 'let's hear how you make 'em. Pancakes is just whirling in my head like wagon wheels.
Jackson Bird told me he was calling on Miss Willella for the purpose of finding out her system of producing pancakes, and he asked me to help him get the bill of lading of the ingredients. I done so, with the results as you see. Have I been sodded down with Johnson grass by a pink-eyed snoozer, or what? "'Slack up your grip in my dress shirt, says Uncle Emsley, 'and I'll tell you.
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