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"Smoke yore own, you hunk of misery. You had four extra sacks in yore warbags this morning." "Had? So you been skirmishin' round my warbags, have you? How many of those sacks did you rustle?" "I left two." "Two! Two! Say, I bought that tobacco myself for my own personal use, and not for a lazy, loafing, cow-faced lump of slumgullion to glom and smoke.
The team of six bronchos fought against the weight of the lumbering vehicle behind, with stiff front legs threw themselves back against their harness. The driver, high on his box, sawed at the lines with his foot heavy on the creaking brake. "Whoa!" he roared. "Easy, yuh cow-faced loco-eyed broncs! Steady now, or I'll beat the livin' tar outn yuh!"
To the puzzled conservatism of the abiding huge majority nearest to the soil the round-backed, lumpish men who tie strings round their corduroys under the knee, and the strong, cow-faced women who look at passers-by on the road from the doors of dark little cottages, over radiant patches of blossoming garden it seemed safest to drop family names altogether, and call it merely the Court.
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