I thinks to myself; she either is corn salve or else she ain't corn salve.

And it ain't natcheral he will pick corn salve, fur he would think I would say that first off.

So I'm betting it ain't.
I takes a chancet on it.
"That," says I, "is mighty easy reading.

That is Siwash Injun Sagraw." I lost.
"It's corn salve," he says.

"And Great Scott! They call this the twentieth century!" "I never called it that," says I, sort o' mad-like.