Just then Mr. Mule got his foot tangled up in one of the
dixies that were lying on the floor, and in attempting to kick it off,
his foot missed Scotty's head by about six inches. Scotty backed up and
so did the mule, still kicking, each kick bringing his hoof nearer
Scotty's mug.
"Take your damn mule out," he roared, but they returned the laugh on him
and made no move. The next kick brought the hoof and dixie within an
inch of the cook's skull and in desperation and fear for his life he
slid sidewise under the mule's belly and just escaped a vicious bite as
he was getting out of the door.
What the mule did not do in that room to the dinner preparations was not
worth doing and Scotty was peremptorily demoted for the loss of the
men's dinner and put to tending mules instead. He had no more idea of
caring for a mule than he had for performing a delicate operation on the
brain and, as a consequence, when inspection day came around, the hip
bones of the animals he had cared for could be used as a hat rack and
the officer ordered them shot and buried.
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