"It's a hot August day, this occasion I has in mind, an' while not
possessin' one of them heat-gauges to say ackerate, I'm allowin'
it's ridin' hard on sech weather as this. A band of us is at the
post-office a-wrastlin' our letters, when in trails Cherokee Hall
lookin' some moody, an' sets himse'f down on a box.
"'Which you-all no doubt allows you'll take some missives yourse'f
this mornin',' says Doc Peets, a-noticin' of his gloom, an' aimin'
to p'int his idees up some other trail. Doc, himse'f, is feelin'
some gala. 'Pass over them documents for Cherokee Hall, an' don't
hold out nothin' onto us. We-alls is 'way too peevish to stand any
offishul gaieties to-day.'
"'Thar's no one weak-minded 'nough to write to me none,' says
Cherokee. `Which I remarks this yere phenomenon with pleasure. Mail-
bags packs more grief than joy, an' I ain't honin' for no hand in
the game whatever. It's fifteen years since I buys a stamp or gets a
letter, an' all thirst tharfor is assuaged complete.'
"'Fifteen years is shore a long time,' says Enright, sorter to
himse'f, an' then we-alls hops into our letters ag'in. Finally
Cherokee breaks in once more.
"` I ain't aimin' to invest Wolfville in no sooperstitious fears,'
says Cherokee, 'an' I merely chronicles as a current event how I was
settin' into a little poker last night, an' three times straight I
picks up "the hand the dead man held," jacks up on eights, an' it
wins every time.
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