“Is he borrowed a gun fum you?” inquired the minstrel, solemnly.
“No-o.” Peter looked questioningly at the clown through half-closed eyes.
“Huh, now dat's funny.” Jim Pink frowned, and pulled down his loose mouth and seemed to study. He drew out a pearl-handled knife, closed his hand over it, blew on his fist, then opened the other hand, and exhibited the knife lying in its palm, with the blade open. He seemed surprised at the change and began cleaning his finger-nails. Jim Pink was the magician at his shows.
Peter waited patiently for Jim Pink to impart his information, “Well, what's the idea?” he asked at last.
“Don' know. 'Pears lak dat knife won't stay in any one han'.” He looked at it, curiously.
“I mean about Tump,” said Peter, impatiently.
“O-o-oh, yeah; you mean 'bout Tump. Well, I thought Tump mus' uv borrowed a gun fum you. He lef' Hobbett's corner wid a great big forty- fo', inquirin' wha you is.” Just then he glanced up, looked penetratingly through the dust-cloud, and added, “Why, I b'lieve da' 's Tump now.”
With a certain tightening of the nerves, Peter followed his glance, but made out nothing through the fogging dust. When he looked around at Jim Pink again, the buffoon's face was a caricature of immense mirth. He shook it sober, abruptly, minstrel fashion.
“Maybe I's mistooken,” he said solemnly. “Tump
