'Pieces of brown paper, covered with - West India molasses, I
should think,' said I.
'West Injy molasses!' he exclaimed. 'By mighty! That makes me
hotter'n a pancake. What's it on the bed fer?'
'To catch flies,' I answered.
'An' ketched me,' said Uncle Eb, as he flung the sheet he was
examining into a corner. 'My extry good suit' too!'
He took off his trousers, then, holding them up to the light.
'They're sp'ilt,' said he mournfully. 'Hed 'em fer more'n ten year,
too.'
'That's long enough,' I suggested.
'Got kind o' 'tached to 'em,' he said, looking down at them and
rubbing his chin thoughtfully. Then we had a good laugh.
'You can put on the other suit,' I suggested, 'and when we get to the
city we'll have these fixed.'
'Leetle sorry, though,' said he, 'cuz that other suit don' look reel
grand. This here one has been purty - purty scrumptious in its day -
if I do say it.'
'You look good enough in anything that's respectable,' I said.
'Kind o' wanted to look a leetle extry good, as ye might say,' said
Uncle Eb, groping in his big carpet-bag.
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