We told about squirrels we had heard about, an’ contested again’ each other to see which had heard o’ the biggest one; but we never even mentioned ol’ man Dort’s squirrel. Eugene had shaved his way down to below the lobe of ol’ man Dort’s right ear, slippin’ in a side remark to our talk every minute or so; an’ purty soon he sez ’at he knows a squirrel by the name o’ Daniel Webster back in Montpelier, Vermont, which was a full half inch longer ’n airy red squirrel we had spoke of. The ol’ man couldn’t stand this. His head bobbed up, cuttin’ a gash on the crook of his jaw, and as soon as he could blow the foam out of his mouth, he sez, “I’ll stake my life, the’ ain’t another squirrel in this country as big as my own Ben Butler.” Eugene put his hand on ol’ man Dort’s forehead an’ pushed him back into the headrest. “You lie there,” sez he, “until I get done shavin’ ya. Then, I’ll bet ya a dollar that I can produce a livin’ squirrel which’ll out-stand, outweigh, an’ out-fight your squirrel—an’ I ain’t never seen your squirrel.” “A dollar!” snorts the ol’ man, flickin’ up his head. “I wouldn’t bother wakin’ Ben Butler up for a measly dollar. I’ll bet ya ten dollars.” “Get back on that headrest,” orders Eugene. “Ten dollars looks a heap sight better to me than one, an’ I’ll be mighty glad to accommodate ya.” Eugene took his fire-stick an’ burned the ol’ man’s cut, an’ the ol’ man had to scruge up his shoulders with the pain of it; but he did it without noticin’, ’cause his mind was on squirrels. “What breed o’ squirrels is yours?” he asked. “If you don’t keep your head where I put it, I’ll throw up the job an’ let you go forth lookin’ like the lost Goog o’ Mayhan,” sez Eugene, raisin’ his voice. Ol’ man Dort was a whalin’ big man, an’ it tickled us a heap to see little Eugene givin’ him directions, like as if he was nothin’ but a pup dog. Ol’ man Dort settled back with a sigh, an’ Eugene leathered up his razor without sayin’ anything for a minute or two. Then he sez, as he begins shavin’ again: “That squirrel I have in mind for ring contests is the short-tailed grizzly ground-squirrel; and it’s the biggest breed of squirrels the’ is.” “The’ ain’t no such a breed of squirrel as that!” yells ol’ man Dort, springing erect in his chair, an’ dullin’ Eugene’s razor by the operation. Eugene stepped back an’ looked at the blood flowin’ from the fresh cut, an’ he sez slow an’ sarcastic; “If it don’t make any difference to you whether you have any skin on your face or not, why I’ll just peel it off an’ tack it on a board to shave it; but hanged if I’m goin’ to duck around tryin’ to shave you on the jump. The’ is too grizzly ground-squirrels.”