This is Marny’s story, not mine. He had a hammer in his hand at the time and a tack between his teeth. “Going to hang Fiddles right under the old fellow’s head,” he burst out. “That’s where he belongs. I’d have given a ten-acre if he could have drawn a bead on that elk himself. Fiddles behind a .44 Winchester and that old buck browsing to windward”--and he nodded at the elk’s head--“would have made the village Mayor sit up and think. What a picturesque liar you are, Fiddles”--here the point of the tack was pressed into the plaster with Marny’s fat thumb--“and what a good-for-nothing, breezy, lovable vagabond”--(Bang! Bang! Hammer at play now)--“you could be when you tried. There!”…
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