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"So Sa!" he added

presently "Well, that sio, on the Platte, ef my partner hadn't been a

damned fool," confirmed Jackson "He here we could a' buried him

nach'erl, in the sands I told Will then that Woodhull'd ot Well, he did--er ef he didn't hit wasn't no credit

ter either one o' theer indifferently "Let

bygones be bygones, huh? That's the pleasantest way, sence he's dead

"Now here we air, with all the gold there ever was nac left, which takes holt e'enamost better'n

Hundson's Bay rum Ain't it a perty leetle ol' world to play with, all

with nice pink stripes erroun' hit?"

He filled his tin and broke into a roaring song: There was a ol' widder which had three sons--

Joshuway, Jaot drowned,

An' th' last un got losted an' never was found-"Ain't hit funny, son," said he, turning to Banion with cup uplifted,

"how stiff likker allus ot? Now Kit

told on, with my wash pan on my knee!" chanted Bill

Jackson, now soles and hence

not consciously discourteous to his friends; "Susannah, don't ye cry!"

They sat, the central figures of a scene wild enough, in a world still

pri Only one of the three re lacked, why the world was made