"Why,"
said he, "before I had got twenty feet with that hive, every bee in it had
stung me a dozen times. And do you remember how we played it on the
professor, and made him believe that I had the chicken pox? O, gentlemen,
a glorious immortality awaits you beyond the grave for lying me out of
that scrape."
The fat man hitched around uneasy in his chair and said they all seemed to
have forgotten the principal event of that excursion, and that was how he
tried to lift a bull dog over the fence by the teeth, which had become
entangled in a certain portion of his wardrobe that should not be
mentioned, and how he left a sample of his trousers in the possession of
the dog, and how the farmer came to the college the next day with
his eyes blacked, and a piece of trousers cloth done up in a paper, and
wanted the professor to try and match it with the pants of some of the
divinity students, and how he had to put on a pair of nankeen pants and
hide his cassimeres in the boat house until the watermelon scrape blew
over and he could get them mended.
Then the small brunette minister asked if he was not entitled to some
credit for blacking the farmer's eyes. Says he: "When he got over the
fence and grabbed the near horse by the bits, and said he would have the
whole gang in jail, I felt as though something had got to be done, and I
jumped out on the other side of the wagon and walked around to him and put
up my hands and gave him 'one, two, three' about the nose, with my
blessing, and he let go that horse and took his dog back to the house.
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