THE COLOR OF HIS BOOTS
I still contend that Magpie Simpkins is too finicky. It’s all right fora feller to desire to appear to a good advantage, especially on Sunday,but a finicky person hadn’t ought to pack a gun at a time when he’s justacquired something out of the ordinary in haberdashery.
New boots don’t mean nothing but misery to me. They could set diamondsall the way around the sole, but just the same she don’t spell nothingbut blisters and cramps to Ike Harper. Anyway, I’m so bow-legged that myheels have got to be run over on the outside edges before I can becomfortable around the knees.
Magpie paid twenty dollars for them yaller boots. They was glowing withyouth, vitality and shiny polish when Magpie leaned ’em against the sideof that Pullman berth. They was a thing of beauty and a joy forever.
A pair of boots ain’t nothing but footwear, except when they’re thecolor of a sunset in Injun Summer and fit like the skin on asausage—and cost twenty dollars.
Some folks will likely argue that Magpie hadn’t owned said boots longenough to become attached to ’em, but to those critics I will say: youdon’t have to have a twenty-dollar bill around the house very longbefore you becomes sentimental about it.
Me and Magpie are on our way back from the Stampede at Totem, where wewent to clean up some money, figuring that we knowed a little more thanthe fellers did who run the games. We found out that honesty is a poorpoker policy in Totem.
Magpie sheds bitter tears over them boots. Their pristine yaller haswent. A porter, suffering from color-blindness, lack of illumination, orgin, has rubbed ’em plentiful with black polish until there ain’tnothing identifying left except the shape and size.
Magpie also bought a new blanket from an Injun robe vender. It containsall the colors of the rainbow, and the design is supposed to invoke aspecial blessing from some high-cheeked god of some kind.
Magpie looks at said boots, folds ’em reverently in the blanket and thenpushes the bell in the berth. Them boots has been under that seat eversince we got up in the morning. Magpie, being a heap vain, desires topack ’em openly and places same in the aisle at night, along with hisregular ones. Now that he wishes to show off a little, he opines to put’em on. He sets there in his socks and pushes that little button.
As I said before, Magpie is too finicky and sudden. No matter if he didknow the certain porter connected with our car and didn’t wait for anapology—he might ’a’ sounded a warning.
He didn’t hit the porter, but he would as soon as he got used to thesway of that car, ’cause his third shot busted the glass right by theporter’s head.
Maybe the conductor was right, and maybe he wasn’t. Anyway, it’s dangedbad form to hop on to a man’s back when he’s trying to settle a personalmatter. Him and Magpie went down in the aisle, and everybody begins toexercise their lungs.
Being part and parcel of Magpie’s crew, I immediate and soon bends mygun over the conductor’s head. Folks will likely say that I was wrong,that I had no interest in them yaller boots; but there’s bound to besome Sundays when Magpie won’t wear ’em, and there ain’t no law againstme dressing up a little.
What is politely known as consternation seems to prevail. Some folkseven go so far as to try and hand us their valuables, wh