“As soon as I gets time I’m going to feel sorry for you, Muley. How in thunder can you invest eighty thousand dollars around here, when everybody knows you ain’t got a cent, and everybody hates sheep. You can’t get married for five years, and you’ve got to feed, water and groom Alfred and Amelia all the rest of their natural lives. Wonder what them twin-sounding things are, Muley?” Muley sets to thinking it over, and folding and unfolding that letter: “Since you sympathized with me, things don’t look so rosy,” he admits, with a deep sigh. “Reckon I missed that marrying part. If Alfred and Amelia got a fair start they ought to be about due. Reckon I’ll ride down to Paradise—dang the luck! I’ve torn that letter plumb in two!” He puts the two pieces in his vest pocket and goes off down to the corral. The longer I thinks things over the harder it looks for Muley. Muley ain’t got the reputation of a saint around here, and can’t even lie so folks will believe him. Zeb owns all the visible supply of sheep, and Muley ain’t got no time to spare if he’s going to make good. Along about noon Muley rides in. He’s got a big bundle under one arm and a big box under the other. He deposits his plunder on the steps, and sets down. I sets down beside him to wait until he gets through sighing, when all to once a squeaky voice yells: “Way ’round ’em. Shep! Who’s crazy!” I hops plumb off the steps, and whirls with my gun ready. Muley looks at me, sad-like, and sighs again— “That’s Alfred, Henry.” “Alfred?” I asks. “Alfred who?” “I don’t know. Nobody introduced me, but it don’t matter—Alfred is a parrot.” “Oh!” says I, “what’s Amelia—a lady bug?” “Naw-w-w! Cat.” “_Squr-r-r-r-reek! Sheep dip! Sheep dip! Har, har, har! Squr-r-reek!_” announces Alfred. “Hen, what’s the natural life of a parrot?” asks Muley, without lifting his head. “I don’t know. Why the question?” “That letter specifies ‘natural lifetime.’ That’s the joker.” “Did it say that?” “Sure did. Wait, I’ll show you.” He fumbles around in his pockets for a while, and then looks foolish-like at me: “The front half of that letter is gone, Henry! Now, where in thunder did I drop that?” He hunts some more but his pockets don’t essay a trace. “Har, har, har! Way ’round ’em, Shep!” shrieks Alfred, and Muley kicks the cage off the porch. “Shut up! You cross between a duck and a phonygraph! You ain’t yelped nothing but sheep-talk since I got you. No wonder Aunt Agnes died—she must have had ticks!” “You ain’t showing proper respect for the dead, Muley,” I reminds him. “Is that so!” he yelps. “Is that so! Well, dog-gone it, Hen, she didn’t show no respect for the living when she shipped me these trinkets, did she? Sending a puncher a sheep-talking buzzard ain’t showing a whole lot of respect. That cat is so old I’ll have to feed it on a bottle, and—” “Sheep dip!” screams Alfred. “Who’s crazy?”