Little
things like this become most discouraging when strung out for a great
period of time. In this manner I sneezed and sweated throughout the
course of a sweltering afternoon, and just as I was about to call it a
day along comes an evilly inclined coal wagon and dumps practically in
my lap one hundred times more coal than I had disturbed in the entire
course of my labors. On top of this Fogerty, who had been loafing
around all day with his tongue out disporting himself on the coal pile
like a dog in the first snow, started a landslide somewhere above and
came bearing down on me in a cloud of dust. I found myself buried
beneath the delighted Fogerty and a couple of tons of coal, from which
I emerged unbeamingly, but not before Mr. Fogerty had addressed his
tongue to my blackened face as an expression of high good humor.
[Illustration: "FOGERTY CAME BEARING DOWN ON ME IN A CLOUD OF DUST"]
"Take me to the brig," I said, walking over to the P.O., "I'm through.
You can put a service flag on that coal pile for me."
"What's consuming you, buddy?" asked the P.O. in not an unkindly
voice.
"Take me to the brig," I repeated, "it's too much. Here I've been
working diligently all day to reduce the size of this huge mass, when
up comes that old wagon and humps its back and belches forth its
horrid contents all over the place.
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