a white moustache, and his face was as red as a beet. He was throwing his hands around, and every few seconds he would pull an arm across his face to wipe the sweat off.
Just as we walked up he took off his hat and pulled a big red handkerchief out of his pocket to mop his forehead, only he forgot which was which and mopped his face with the hat and got it all wadded up. When he saw what he had done he cussed something awful and threw the handkerchief on the ground and stomped on it with his cowboy boots and clapped the hat back on his head crossways and all smashed in. He was real excitable.
Uncle Sagamore just leaned against the side of the car and listened to him. Every once in a while he would pucker up his mouth and sail out some tobacco juice.
“What I want to know is what you done to them two deputies of mine!” the fat man was shouting. “I can’t get either of ‘em to hold still long enough to tell me what’s wrong with him. The last time they was out here you damn near blowed ‘em up with dynamite, and now they just keep chasin’ each other down the hall to the John all gaunted down to skin an’ bones like a blind muley-cow with the scours, and I can’t get no sense out of ‘em at all except one of ‘em said he thought they’d been drinkin’ croton oil.”
Uncle Sagamore just looked at him, real surprised. “Croton oil?” he says, like he couldn’t believe it. “Why, Shurf, they must of been just hoorawin’ you. They wouldn’t do nothin’ like that. Why, you take a couple of men that’s smart enough to get to be politicians an’ draw a paycheck for settin’ in the shade of the courthouse to watch out for gals gettin’ in and out of cars so they don’t sunburn their legs—why they got more sense than to drink croton oil.”
He stopped to sail out some more tobacco juice. The sheriff was just sputtering, like he couldn’t even think of words any more.
Uncle Sagamore wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Why, hell,” he says, “even old boll weevil like me that ain’t got brains nough to do nothin’ but work nineteen hours a day to pay his taxes is got more sense than to drink croton oil. It’ll give you the scours something awful. But I’ll tell you what, Shurf,” he went on. “I won’t let on to nobody that you even mentioned it. It would be a awful thing to get around, come to think of it, people sayin’ to each other how them goddam fat politicians was gettin’ so bored with high livin’ and doin’ nothing but milkin’ the taxpayers that they’ve took to drinkin’ croton oil just to pass the time. I won’t breathe it to a soul.”
Uncle Sagamore looked around then and saw us. “Shurf,” he says, “I’d like to have you meet my brother Sam.”
The sheriff jerked his head around and stared at us. “Oh, no!” he says, like he hurt somewhere. “Oh, Jesus, no! Not two of you! Not two Noonans in the same county. God wouldn’t do that to anybody. I’ll—I’ll—” He choked all up.
“Sam,” Uncle Sagamore went on, “the shurf here is kind of worried about his men. Seems like they’ve started sneakin’ off to drink croton oil on the sly, like a baby stuffin’ beans up his nose, and he’s afraid the voters’ll get wind of it. But I was just tellin’ him he ain’t got a thing to worry about as far as we’re concerned. We can keep a secret as well as anybody in the county.”
“We sure can,” Pop says. “Nobody’ll ever find it out from us. But ain’t that kind of a funny thing for ‘em to want to do?”
“Well, sir,” Uncle Sagamore says, “we’re not in no position to judge, Sam. We’re not in politics. Ain’t no way we can rightly tell what kind of a strain a man might be under, settin’ there every day with all that responsibility. Why, a strain like that could get so bad after a while a man might even start to think about gettin’ out of politics and goin’ to work, though offhand I can’t seem to recollect of a case of one ever crackin’ up quite as bad as that.”
The sheriff was getting a little purple around the face now.