Might's well try to put your finger on a flea.

He's here to-day and gone yesterday, as the Scriptur' says.

He ate a little mite of supper, but not much, and then off he puts.

Says he's goin' to walk the fog out'n his head.

I told him, s' I, 'You'll walk a plaguey sight more in than you do out, THIS night,' but he went just the same.