A boy slipped through the lilacs.
"Jee-whiz!" said the boy. "You've hurt yourself."
"That's right," Jeff replied.
"How did it happen?"
"The plug crossed his feet in the dip yonder, and rolled plum over me.
Say--do you want to earn an honest dollar?"
The adjective was emphasised, for none knew better than Jeff that the
foothills harboured queer folk. The boy nodded.
"You must get a buggy, sonny."
"A buggy? Anything else? As if buggies grew in the brush-hills!"
Just then Jeff's sanguine complexion turned grey, and his eyes seemed
to slip back into his head. The boy perceived a bulging pocket, out of
which he whipped a flask. Jeff took a long drink; then he gasped out:
"Thunder! you was smart to find that flask. Ah-h-h!"
"You're in a real bad fix," said the boy.
"I _am_ in bad shape," Jeff admitted. "If I'd known I was going
to lose the use o' myself like this, I wouldn't ha' been so doggoned
keen about my friend leavin' me."
"Your friend must be in a partic'lar hurry."
"He was that," Jeff murmured. A queer buzzing in his ears and an
overpowering feeling of giddiness made him close his eyes.
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