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"Any parsnips?" asked Gub-Gub. "No," said Jip. "You always think of things to eat. No parsnips whatever. And no snuff plenty of pipes and cigarettes, and a few cigars. But no snuff. We must wait till the wind changes to the South." "Yes, it's a poor wind, that," said Gub-Gub. "I think you're a fake, Jip. Who ever heard of finding a man in the middle of the ocean just by smell!
It is a preposterous fake. They do not satisfy they produce further craving and they know that that craving grows, until the habit is formed and their "satisfied" victim becomes a hopeless slave known as a cigarette fiend. There is only one drawback for the cigarette manufacturer, his consumer is too short lived; the cigarette devitalizes, pauperizes, and destroys.
"Maybe the circus is losing money and he's got to cut out this act let some of us go can't pay our salaries," was the reply. "Don't you believe it!" declared the other. "The circus is making more money than it ever did more even when the fake tickets are worked off on it." "Well, it's none of our affair." "I wouldn't like my salary to be cut off." "Oh, neither would I." "Fake tickets?
"Your wire got me two days since and I came right up." "Any trace?" "Left here two days ago." "Three of them?" "Yes. Flat-bottomed, narrow-beamed boat, sloop-rigged pretty light." "Know anything of the men?" "Only the big one. Calls himself Colonel Richford. Had a fake copper outfit in the mountains east of Alamo." "Where do you think they're headed for?"
He wore the bandages on his head, which was cut by his fracas with the fake professor, and, in addition, he had tied one about his jaw, as though he had the toothache. He had no difficulty in finding the place. Outside the door was a sign reading: PROFESSOR ALI BABA. SCIENTIST. John was admitted by a rather slick individual, in a shining, greasy suit of black.
"But don't you see, old thing, you're still up in the air? Your theory doesn't touch ground anywhere." "Stanley my poor deluded boy! when I got to the railroad I wired that assayer right off. Our samples never reached El Paso. So I wrote out my fake location and filed it. See what followed that filing over yonder? I come this way on purpose, expecting to see those fires, Stanley.
It's all a fake scare." "I don't think it's that," said Sally. "Poor Mr. Faucitt had it quite badly. That's why I couldn't come earlier." Gerald did not seem interested either by the news of Mr. Faucitt's illness or by the fact that Sally, after delay, had at last arrived. He dug a spoon sombrely into his grape-fruit.
Wernberg locked himself in, do you?" "I shouldn't think he would," Mr. Cook admitted. "But if he didn't do it, who did? That's what I'd like to know." "Mr. Wernberg wasn't the only man in the house, you know," said Bob. "Who else was there?" "Didn't Hugh and two of the detectives chase another man?" "Yez mean the fake detective?" asked Sergeant Riley. "I do." "But wasn't he in the same gang?
It would take a good deal to win any approbation from that bunch. And then they were looking at the first scene, which Was a night in Whoopalong, the fake town over there beyond the big stage. The Happy Family, all disguised as cowboys, came surging out of the darkness. H-m-m.
"They cut this trail 'way back in the Fifties," Billy explained. "I only found it by accident. Then I asked Poppe yesterday. He was born in the valley. He said it was a fake minin' rush across from Petaluma. The gamblers got it up, an' they must a-drawn a thousan' suckers. You see that flat there, an' the old stumps. That's where the camp was. They set the tables up under the trees.
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