Well, well,' says Uncle Emsley, 'that Jackson Bird is sure a seldom kind of a snoozer.'"
During the progress of Jud's story he had been slowly but deftly combining certain portions of the contents of his sacks and cans.
Toward the close of it he set before me the finished product—a pair of red-hot, rich-hued pancakes on a tin plate.
From some secret hoarding he also brought a lump of excellent butter and a bottle of golden syrup.
"How long ago did these things happen?" I asked him.
"Three years," said Jud.
"They're living on the Mired Mule Ranch now.
But I haven't seen either of 'em since.
They say Jackson Bird was fixing his ranch up fine with rocking chairs and window curtains all the time he was putting me up the pancake tree.
Oh, I got over it after a while.
But the boys kept the racket up."
"Did you make these cakes by the famous recipe?" I asked.
"Didn't I tell you there wasn't no receipt?" said Jud.
"The boys hollered pancakes till they got pancake hungry, and I cut this receipt out of a newspaper.
How does the truck taste?"
"They're delicious," I answered.
"Why don't you have some, too, Jud?"
I was sure I heard a sigh.
"Me?" said Jud.
"I don't ever eat 'em."