Last Laugh

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He who laughs, lasts.

Well sir, what we call the mud season surlies round these parts is that tow sack of perturbability everyone lugs when them of prespring rains make roads impassable and tempers intolerable. You'd a knowed what I mean if you'd braved a wettin' down the other day to make your way up to the Plumtree Crossin' General Store. Inside that leaky establishment, the local reprobates was all hunched around the potbellied stove, wearing raincoats, and sporting a few just—sprouted watercresses in their beards.

And surly . . . well, it were enough to make you want to toss a firecracker in a midwinter bear den just to meet some good-natured company. There was Ott Bartlett and Newt Blanchard playing checkers . . . almost regular-like 'cept that ever' time one piece reached the other guy's side, that fella'd acknowledge the feat by flingin' the whole board to the floor. Meanwhile, Lafe Higgins were busily grindin' his pipe into the floor with his foot 'cause the fool thing was too wet to light, an' August Carmichael were breakin' the store's hat rack into kindlin' sticks and shovin' them into the stove . . . jist 'cause he didn't like the way it'd been lookin' over his shoulder.

An' them goin's-on kept goin' on till Doc Thromberg came in. Now, I suppose it may be because a fella in his line of work sees plenty of real cause for unhappiness, but whatever the reason, a spat of foul weather don't never seem to ruffle Doc none. Fact is, oftentimes he serves as peacemaker when the rest of the crew put on their wetweather uglies. [EDITOR'S NOTE: Think we're lying, do you? Then check the last two "mud season" issues of this magazine for yourself!]

Doc decided the remedy for this partic'lar case of the surlies might jist be a sportin' proposition. "Boys," he said, ploppin' down in a soft, soggy seat, "I just visited a patient over in Erosion Junction, and that reminded me of the big Easter Parade that town's going to have two weeks from now. You see, they've invited me to drive the '37 Packard I keep stored up" (Doc used a beat-up four-wheeldrive for regular transportation) "at the head of this year's parade."

"Well, ain't that the biggest thing since the Head Lice Banjo Players," snarled Lafe Higgins.

"And I'm sure you boys also know that the driver of that lead car traditionally escorts the county beauty queen in the parade and to the Spring Ball that night. Well, I'm willing to bet the privilege of driving my prized, spanking-clean Packard and escorting its passenger to the parade and dance against any soul here who can keep his temper as long as I can . . . but if I win, the loser is gonna have to drive me on my rounds-at all hours of the day and night until the roads are dry again."

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