Hyatt was careful not to sell the animal to anybody who was liable to be in that part of the country again. Spot had once gone as far as the Mississippi river with a confiding purchaser, and was away only a little over two weeks. He was now expected back at any time, in fact he was under the bed when Hyatt arrived home after the disagreeable reproaches of Bill Stiles, and the next day the incident was considered closed by both parties. The only pet that Bill had cared anything for in recent years, besides his dog, was a one legged duck that he called “Esther.” The missing support had been acquired by a snapping turtle in the river, and Bill’s sympathies and affections had been aroused. During her owner’s absence from his shack, Esther and her brown brood were confined in the hollow base of a big tree, protected from the weasels and skunks by a wire screen over the opening. By Saturday night Hyatt and Stiles had become quite chummy again. It was very hot and we sat in front of the store with our coats off. Bill was discoursing sapiently on topics of international import, when we saw somebody down the road. “That ol’ mudturkle comin’ yonder with that pipe stuck in all them whiskers, is Bill Wirrick,” he announced after further observation. “We call ’im ‘Puckerbrush Bill,’ on account of ’is bein’ up in Puckerbrush Bayou one night in ’is push boat, an’ tryin’ to make a short cut to git back to the river. He got ’is whiskers tangled in the puckerbrush an’ had to cut away a lot of ’em with ’is knife to git out. He’s between some pretty big bunches of ’em now, but they aint nothin’ to what they was. He had pretty near half a bushel an’ ’e used to carry ’is money in ’em. I s’pose ’e’ll begin tellin’ about all ’is troubles w’en ’e gits ’ere. That’s what’s the matter with this place, an’ it makes me tired to hear all these fellers tellin’ their troubles w’en they oughta be listenin’ to mine. My troubles has got some importance, but theirs don’t interest nobody. “Hello, Puck,” greeted the old man, as Wirrick came up, “how’s things down to the slough?” “Pretty slow; got’ny tobacco?” “Listen at ’im!” whispered Bill. [Illustration: “PUCKERBRUSH BILL” ] He was duly supplied, and took one of the hickory chairs under the awning. Notwithstanding their reported depletion, his whiskers were still impressive, and the warm evening breeze played softly and fondly among the ample remnants. His mouth was concealed somewhere in the maze. His pointed nose and watchful furtive eyes gave his face a peculiar foxy expression. “Its a good thing you didn’t strike a prairie fire with them whiskers, instid of a mess o’ puckerbrush,” remarked Bill, after a period of silence. “I’m goin’ to mow ’em in a few days to cool off, an’ then raise a new crop fer next winter. They’s lots more whar them come from,” replied Wirrick. “I’ll git some whiskers that’ll make you fellers set up an’ take notice ’fore the snow flies.”