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"I wish the fleas could say as much for you or your imitation dog," retorted Jim. "There's just three things in Borealis that go around smellin' thick of perfume, and you and that little two-ounce package of dog-degeneration are maybe some worse than the other." Parky made a belligerent motion, but Webber, the blacksmith, caught his arm in a powerful grip. "Not to-day," he said.
Ross-Ellison appeared perfectly cheerful, absolutely natural, and without the slightest outward and visible sign of any form of perturbation. "'Morning, Ranald," he continued. "Sorry to be the cause of turning you out in the cold. Gad! isn't it parky. Hope you aren't going to keep me standing.
Constitutionally he was a nervous and pessimistic man with a fixed belief in the conspiracy of events, banded for the undoing of him and his. Blind or dubious conditions racked his soul, but real danger found him not only prepared, but even eager. Now his face was a picture of foreboding. "Parky looks as if Davy Jones was pulling on his string," observed the flippant Ives to his neighbour.
"What's the fight?" interrupted a voice, and the men shuffled aside to give room to a well-dressed, dapper-looking man. It was Parky, the gambler. He was tall, and easy of carriage, and cultivated a curving black mustache. In his scarf he wore a diamond as large as a marble.
"I can see you don't git another snack of grub in here, my friend," retorted Parky, adding a number of oaths. "And for just two cents I'd break your jaw and pitch you out in the street." "Not with your present flow of language," answered Jim. The teamster inquired, "Why don't Jim git any more grub?" "Because I'm running this joint and he 'ain't got the cash," said Parky.
Parky, the gambler, was badly shot through the arm; Bone, the bar-keep, had a long, straight track through his hair, cleaned by a ball of lead. And this was deemed enough of a story when the ten half-frozen men had secured the claim to Jim and his that New-Year's morning. But the camp regretted on the whole that, instead of being shelved at his house, the gambler had not been slain.
"And I ain't neither," declared the gambler, who boasted of being Canadian. "Don't you forget that, old boy." "No," Jim slowly replied, "I've often noticed that all that glitters ain't American." "Well, you can clear out of here and notice how things look outside," retorted Parky. Jim was slowly straightening up when the blacksmith and the teamster entered the place.
"There's only one time of day when it's safe to deal with a gambler, and that's thirteen o'clock." "I wouldn't sell you nothing, anyway," said Parky, with a swagger. "He couldn't git grub here now for no money savvy?" "I wonder why you call it grub, now that it's come into your greasy hands!" drawled the miner, as he slowly started to leave the store.
The gambler, Parky, sufficiently recovered from the wound in his arm to be out of his house, and planning a secret revenge against old Jim and his friends, was more than merely opposed to the plan which had come from the shop of Webber. "It don't go down," said he to a crowd, with a sneer at the parson and with oaths for Bone.
Felton ordered gig and pony carriage to let our horses rest, and follow and meet us, and away we went. Mr. Jones driving me in his gig to a beautiful parky place where Dr. Felton flourishes for the summer, and saw his children, who had wished to see the mother of Frank and Rosamond. Then through Mr.
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