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Updated: June 19, 2025
He stations them at the side of the road right square in front of Old Man Wisner's house, and he tells them to play everything they knew and then play it all over again, and keep on playing. We was setting eating dinner, enjoying their music as much as we could, when the leader of the band comes in; and says he: "Mein Herr, wir sind schon ausgeblasen." "Is that so?" says Old Man Wright.
It was true, all he'd said. We'd played our little game and lost it. I never felt so bow-legged in my life, or so red-headed, as I did when I turned to walk down from our house to Wisner's. I looked back just once. There was Old Man Wright standing in the door, tall and bent over, a hand against each side of the door frame.
"Therefore," says he, jarring the paper weight on the table when he brings down his fist, "if times gets any harder, as like enough they will, Dave Wisner's got to let that property go on the market for what it'll bring inside his one year of grace after foreclosure.
For instance, I was looking around today for a chance to invest a little more money; not much, only about half of this here last deferred payment that come in all Old Man Wisner's money and I seen in the papers that we haven't got no potash works in America to amount to much, and that potash is shore worth plenty of money whatever potash is.
"The honest yeoman," says he, "according to Old Man Wisner's description, he don't never have to eat anything as common as bread and butter, not after he's bought some of that land at four hundred and fifty dollars a acre.
"The worst it could do would be to spoil a puncher that never was much good anyhow." "No," says I; "it's too much like work." "Well, we could make other pictures," says he, smiling contented. "For instance, we could set up two or three cameras right acrost the street from Old Man Wisner's 'most any morning.
That ain't respectable. When you cut up cows and hogs into sides, hams and sausage, then's when you get respectable. Ain't you got plenty proof of that? Look at them Wisners, for instance." He snorts at that and ain't happy. "Well, it's the truth," says I. "Look at us! We ain't nobody here. Old Man Wisner's the king bee of this here row of houses. We ain't one-two-ten in this race." "Huh!
"Near as I can figure, Curly," says Old Man Wright to me soon after what had happened between me and Bonnie Bell "near as I can figure, Old Man Wisner's been advertising that the old Circle Arrow Range is a great little place for the honest granger to raise bananas, pineapples and other tropical fruits." "It ain't," says I, "except tomatoes and them in tin cans."
"I'll tell you," says she; "we'll build our sunken garden right up against Old Man Wisner's wall. How would it do to plant a few ivy vines to run up the side of the wall, dad?" she ast her pa. "Why, all right," says he; "but you be mighty careful not to plant any olive branches." So Bonnie Bell and me we was busy quite a while making plans for this here sunken garden.
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