The victim of Tobe Cullum's
disastrous practical joke had become on a sudden case-hardened, as it were.
The consumptive pallor had miraculously disappeared from his cheeks and the
homesick look from his eyes. He bore the merciless chaffing at Bishop's
with devil-may-care good-nature, and he besought Mrs. Cullum, almost with
tears in his eyes, to "let up on Mr. Tobe."
"I was sech a dern fool, Mis' Cullum," he candidly confessed, "that I don't
blame Mr. Tobe for puttin' up a job on me. Besides," he added, his eyes
twinkling shrewdly, "I'm goin' to git even. I'm layin' off to take Jim
Belcher, that biggetty drummer from Waco, a-snipin' out Buck Snort next
Sat'day night. He's a bigger idjit than I ever was."
"You ten' to your own business, Bud, an' I'll ten' to mine," Mrs. Cullum
returned, not unkindly. Which business on her part apparently was to make
Mr. Cullum miserable by taking no notice of him whatever. The house under
her supervision was, as it had always been, a model of neatness; the meals
were cooked by her own hands and served with an especial eye to Tobe's
comfort; his clothes were washed and ironed, and his white shirt laid out
on Sunday mornings, with the accustomed care and regularity.
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