Uncle Ripley scratched his head. "Waal-I dunn~ bein' a
Republican-I think-"
"That's so-it's a purty scaly outlook. I don't believe in second terms
myself," the man hastened to say.
"Is that your new barn acrosst there?" be asked, point-ing with his
whip.
"Yes, sir, it is," replied the old man proudly. After years of
planning and hard work he had managed to erect a little wooden
barn, costing possibly three hundred dollars. It was plain to be seen
he took a childish pride in the fact of its newness.
The stranger mused. "A lovely place for a sign," he said as his eyes
wandered across its shining yellow broadside.
Uncle Ethan stared, unmindful of the bugs crawling over the edge
of his pan. His interest in the pots of paint deepened.
"Couldn't think o' lettin' me paint a sign on that barn?" the stranger
continued, putting his locked hands around one knee and gaining
away across the pigpen at the building.
"What kind of a sign? Goldarn your skins!" Uncle Ethan pounded
the pan with his paddle and scraped two or three crawling
abominations off his leathery wrist.
It was a beautiful day, and the man in the wagon seemed unusually
loath to attend to business.
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