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"You're wrong, Gaynor," declared a thin, tall, hawkfaced man, who was in his shirt sleeves; "my boy was in that run, and it isn't Carson's fault at all. It's dope, Mike. Lauzanne was fair crazy with it at the post; and McKay was dead to the world on the little mare the Starter couldn't get him away." "That's right, Mike," added Dixon; "Carson fined the boy fifty, an' the Stewards set him down."
Three were naked, their bodies oiled until they glistened with a high polish. One of them carried a battered old canvas steamer chair; one a fan of ostrich plumes; and one a long gourd heavily decorated with cowrie shells. The fourth was an impressive individual in middle life, hawkfaced, tall and spare, carrying himself with great dignity.
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