"Mr. Spooner, why do you dig post-holes?"

With a queer glint in his small, dull grey eyes he replied, curtly:
"Why are you boys a-shootin' quail--hey? 'Cause ye like to, I reckon.
Fer the same reason I like ter dig post-holes. It's jest recreation--
to me."

When we were out of earshot Ajax laughed.

"Recreation!" said my brother. "Nothing will ever recreate him. Of all
the pinchers----"

"Shush-h-h!" said I. "It's too hot."

Our neighbours told many stories of Pap Spooner. Even that bland old
fraud, John Jacob Dumble, admitted sorrowfully that he was no match
for Pap in a horse, cattle, or pig deal; and George Leadham, the
blacksmith, swore that Pap would steal milk from a blind kitten. The
humorists of the village were of opinion that Heaven had helped Pap
because he had helped himself so freely out of other folks' piles.

In appearance Andrew Spooner was small, thin, and wiry, with the beak
of a turkey-buzzard, the complexion of an Indian, and a set of large,
white, very ill-fitting false teeth, which clicked like castanets
whenever the old man was excited.

Now, in California, "Pap" is a _nom de caresse_ for father. But,
so far as we knew, Pap had no children; accordingly we jumped to the
conclusion that Andrew Spooner got his nickname from a community who
had rechristened the tallest man in our village "Shorty" and the