Ajax, for Example
“Horse sense,” says “Magpie” Simpkins, “consists of knowingsomething that no school-teacher could pound into your head with apile-driver. It’s a sort of an initiative and referendum that bookscan’t tell you about, and if you ain’t got it, Ike, you might aswell get you a loaf of bread, a jug of wine and hide out in thebrush, where you won’t hamper folks with your idiocy. There wasAjax, for example.”
Magpie hooks his spurs into the top of the table and leans back inhis chair. He knows there ain’t no argument, but hopes I’ll findone. I agrees with Magpie—for once. I’ll tell you why I agree withhim, and maybe you’ll agree with me.
Me and you both know that there’s educated fools. If I can have mychoice I’ll take the fool that never got educated in preference toone what absorbed everything he found in books, ’cause the educatedone can’t even crawl into a blanket without peering into a book tosee the definition of the word “crawl,” the proper uses of ablanket, and the procedure according to precedent.
Yessir, there was Ajax, for example.
Me and Magpie are cooking breakfast in our cabin on Plenty StoneCreek one Summer morning, when we hears footsteps approaching onhorseback. Magpie steps to the door with a pan of bacon in his handand peers outside. He takes one look and tries to scratch his headwith the pan, the same of which leaves our hog-meat on the floor.
Then he looks back at me.
“Ike, come here! It’s either a mistake or I’m mistaken.”
I walks over and takes a look. Looks like one of Sam Holt’srat-tailed broncs, but the rider—whooee! I don’t blame Magpie fordropping the bacon. I’d ’a’ dropped a stick of dynamite if I’d hadone.
I’ll begin at the top and work on down. First we have a hat. Shelooks like a cross between a ordinary hard hat and a campaign lid,being as she’s sort of flat on the top. Under said hat cometh hair,which seems to grow straight out.
Then we have a pair of funeral-rimmed specs forking the longest,skinniest nose I ever seen. I feels that it must blow about the samenote as the stopped-down E string on a fiddle. The chin of thecritter seems to be so long that the weight of it holds his mouthopen.
We have with us now the neck. To speak like a poet I’d say that hehad the neck of a swan. Maybe not so graceful, but longer. Hisshoulders shows a heap of neglect, and from there he just sort ofslopes off to his feet, which is some slope, if you asks me.
Riding with his elbows has made his sleeves pull up almost to hisshoulders, and hanging on with his knees has pulled up the legs ofhis pants until he’s setting on most of ’em. He ain’t anything for adrinking man to look at—if he likes the taste of liquor.
Me and Magpie stands there sort of weak-like and watches him searchhis pockets. He ain’t said a word yet. The more pockets he searchesthe less he seems to find. He grunts and reaches for his hip pocket,the same of which seems to bend his legs backwards until his heelscatch in that bronc’s flanks.
Zowie!
That rat-tailed bronc resents such familiarity, with the result thatsaid apparition lands setting down in our front yard while theinsulted bronc wends its way home.
I plumb forgot to mention that this person carried a little valiseon the saddle-horn. Yes, it came off with him.
He sets there on the chip-pile blinking like a old owl, and then heproduces an envelope from his hip pocket. Then he adjusts his specsand peers up at us.
“I beg your pardon