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A few hours later he was back again, looking older and shakier than ever, his wet red eyes looking like plague spots in his ashy brown visage or like volcanic eruptions in a desert of dead lava, and in husky, clicking accents he told Billy to tell the Okimow that the pills were no good not strong enough for him. "Well," I said, "he shall surely have results this time."
He saw, as he supposed, "the Okimow in peril of his life," and acted according to the dictates of his accursedly poor discretion. Never again shall he carry a rifle with me. So the last scene came not, but we had the trophy of a Musk-ox that weighed nine hundred pounds in life and stood five feet high at the shoulders a world's record in point of size.
He was on two crutches now, his complexion was a dirty gray, and his feeble knees were shaking, but he told Billy yes, unmistakably this time to tell the Okimow that that was great medicine I had given him, and he wanted a dose just like it for his wife.
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