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 “Who is goin’ to git out the dum sheet?” Jake asked testily.

“I dunno,” said Bishwhang.

“You’n me kin stick the type, but we can’t write no stuff. Now who ’n hell—”

“It’s got to be got out. There’ll be doctor’s bills and med’cine and sich—and Dave, he hain’t got nothin’ else.”

“Huh,” Jake snorted, “kin you imagine me settin’ down to write up the Methodist ice cream festival?…”

“Here’s that Canfield gal comin’ back,” said Bishwhang, and there was Lydia, the keen edge of her temper dulled by a long walk.

“Evenin’,” said Jake. “We was waitin’ for news about Dave.”

“Why don’t you go in and ask?”

“We—we didn’t want to make no bother,” Bishwhang stammered, “but—if you kin tell ’em—Jake and me—if we kin do anythin’, or anythin’—we’d admire to be told.”

“I’ll go find out about him for you. Wait.” She started through the gate.

“If you kin see him,” DishwhangBishwhang [sic] said. “If you git a chance to talk to him, jest ask him what in tunket we’re a-goin’ to do. Tell him we’re up a stump. Him bein’ sick, there hain’t nobody to git out the paper…. Kind of ask him what he’d do if he was in our place.”