"I started in to tell you how I put Murphy out of business, didn't I,
son? The facts brought out by the coroner's jury," embarking on what he
conceived to be a bit of happy and elaborate realism, "was that I'd shot
him in self-defense after he'd drawed a gun on me. He had heard I was at
Fort Worth--not that I was looking for trouble, which I never done; but
I never turned it down when any one was at pains to fetch it to me; I
was always willing they should leave it with me for to have a merry
time. Murphy heard I'd said if he'd come to Fort Worth I'd take him home
and make a pet of him; and he'd sent back word that he was looking for
a man with two ears to play with; and I'd said mine was on loose and for
him to come and pull 'em off. After that there was just one thing he
could do if he wanted to be well thought of, and he done it. He hit the
town hell-snorting, and so mad he was fit to be tied." Mr. Shrimplin
paused to permit this striking phrase to lay hold of Custer's
imagination. "Yes, sir, hell-snorting, and so bad he was plum scairt of
himself. He said he was looking for a gentleman who had sent him word he
had two ears to contribute to the evening's gaiety, by which I knowed he
meant me and was in earnest. He was full of boot-leg whisky--"

"What kind of whisky's that, pa?" asked Custer.

"That," said Mr. Shrimplin, looking into the round innocent face of his
son, "that's the stuff the traders used to sell the Indians. Strong?
Well, you might say it was middling strong--just middling--about three
drops of it would make a rabbit spit in a bulldog's face!"

It was on one memorable twenty-seventh of November that Mr. Shrimplin
reached this height of verbal felicity, and being Thanksgiving day, it
was, aside from the smell of strong yellow soap and the fresh-starched