“‘Now,’ sez I, ‘I likes you, Arch, ’cause I all’ays thought you was a fust-rate feller; but ain’t you been ’busin’ me everywhere fur everything you could think of?’ “‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you say you’d git hold of me one of these days, and make me see sites?’ “‘No,’ sez I, ‘I didn’t: but this here’s what I sed, sez I, ef that feller, Arch Cooney, don’t mind which side of his bread’s buttered, I’ll get hold of him one of those days and make him see sites.’ “‘Well,’ sez he, ‘Uncle Mike, you knows I’m the most peace’blest feller living, and always mind which side of my bread’s buttered, and ef that’s all you sed, ’taint nothin’; so let’s take er drink.’ “Then he tuck out er tickler of whiskey, and arter he’d tuck three or four swallers out’n it, sez he: “‘Uncle Mike, obleege me by taking er horn.’ “‘No,’ sez I, ‘I won’t do no such er dog on thing, for when I likes er chap, I likes him, and when I don’t like him, I don’t like him: but if you wants to fight, I’m your man.’ “You oughter seen Arch then, I think he was the most maddest man that ever wobbled on two ’hind legs.’ He rar’d an’ pitched, an’ cussed an’ swore like anything. “When I see him cuttin’ up that way, I commence getting mad, too, an’ my knees they begin to shake, sorter like I had er chill, an’ skeered—no, Sir—an’ I s’posed thar was gwine to be thar devil to pay, I give you my word. I ain’t been so wrathy before once since, and that was t’other day when that Cain, the blacksmith, drunk up my last bottle of ‘bullface;’ and when I tacked him ’bout it, sed he thought it was milk. “But that ein’t neither here, nor thar. As I was a sayin’, Arch he cussed at me, an’ I cussed at him, an’ the fellers what was along of me sed I beat him all holler. Torectly I begin to get tired of jawin’ away so much, and sez I: “‘Arch, what’s the use of makin’ such er all-fired rackit ’bout nothin’. S’pose we make it up?’ “‘Good as wheat,’ sez he. “‘Well,’ sez I, ‘give us your paw,’ sez I, ‘but,’ sez I, ‘thar’s one thing you sed, what sorter sticks in my craw yet, an’ if you don’t pollogize, I’ll wallop you for it right now.’ “‘What does you mean?’ sez he. “Sez I, ‘Didn’t you sed one day that my preachin’ warn’t nothin’ but loud hollerin’?’ “‘Yes,’ sez he, ‘but didn’t you send me word one time that you b’lieved I was skeered of you, an’ the fust chance you got you’d take the starch out’n me, as sure as er gun.’ “Sez I, ‘Yes, but what does that signify?’ “‘Well,’ sez he, ‘ef you’ll take back what you sed, I’ll take back what I sed.’ “Then I begin to get as mad as all wrath, and, sez I: “‘You eternal sheep-stealin’ whiskey-drinkin’, nigger-lammin’, bow-legged, taller-faced rascal, does you want me to tell er lie, by chawin’ up my own words? Ef that’s what you’re arter, jest come on, and I’ll larrup you till your mammy won’t know you from a pile of sassage-meat.’