The Portable Mark Twain by Mark Twain

incomprehensible to me. Cannot you simplify them in some way? At first I thought perhaps I understood you, but I grope now. Would it not expedite matters if you restricted yourself to categorical statements of fact unencumbered with obstructing accumulations of metaphor and allegory?”
    Another pause, and more reflection. Then, said Scotty:
    â€œI’ll have to pass, I judge.”
    â€œHow?”
    â€œYou’ve raised me out, pard.”
    â€œI still fail to catch your meaning.”
    â€œWhy, that last lead of yourn is too many for me—that’s the idea. I can’t neither trump nor follow suit.”
    The clergyman sank back in his chair perplexed. Scotty leaned his head on his hand and gave himself up to thought. Presently his face came up, sorrowful but confident.
    â€œI’ve got it now, so’s you can savvy,” he said. “What we want is a gospel-sharp. See?”
    â€œA what?”
    â€œGospel-sharp. Parson.”
    â€œOh! Why did you not say so before? I am a clergyman—a parson.”
    â€œNow you talk! You see my blind and straddle it like a man. Put it there!”—extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister’s small hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent gratification.
    â€œNow we’re all right, pard. Let’s start fresh. Don’t you mind my snuffling a little—becuz we’re in a power of trouble. You see, one of the boys has gone up the flume—”
    â€œGone where?”
    â€œUp the flume—throwed up the sponge, you understand.”
    â€œThrown up the sponge?”
    â€œYes—kicked the bucket—”
    â€œAh—has departed to that mysterious country from whose bourne no traveler returns.”
    â€œReturn! I reckon not. Why pard, he’s dead! ”
    â€œYes, I understand.”
    â€œOh, you do? Well I thought maybe you might be getting tangled some more. Yes, you see he’s dead again—”
    â€œ Again? Why, has he ever been dead before?”
    â€œDead before? No! Do you reckon a man has got as many lives as a cat! But you bet you he’s awful dead now, poor old boy, and I wish I’d never seen this day. I don’t want no better friend than Buck Fanshaw. I knowed him by the back; and when I know a man and like him, I freeze to him—you hear me. Take him all round, pard, there never was a bullier man in the mines. No man ever knowed Buck Fanshaw to go back on a friend. But it’s all up, you know, it’s all up. It ain’t no use. They’ve scooped him.”
    â€œScooped him?”
    â€œYes—death has. Well, well, well, we’ve got to give him up. Yes indeed. It’s a kind of hard world, after all, ain’t it? But pard, he was a rustler! You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully boy with a glass eye! Just spit in his face and give him room according to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in. He was the worst son of a thief that ever drawed breath. Pard, he was on it! He was on it bigger than an Injun!”
    â€œOn it? On what?”
    â€œOn the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight, you understand. He didn’t give a continental for any body. Beg your pardon, friend, for coming so near saying a cuss-word—but you see I’m on an awful strain, in this palaver, on account of having to cramp down and draw everything so mild. But we’ve got to give him up. There ain’t any getting around that, I don’t reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him—”
    â€œPreach the funeral discourse? Assist at the obsequies?”
    â€œObs’quies is good. Yes. That’s it—that’s our little game. We are going to get the thing up regardless, you know. He was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain’t going to be no slouch—solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a