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Mills stood moodily watching the men eat, his brain drumming on the anguished problem of the Frenchman's life or death without effort or volition on his part. "Got any more poosa, old boy?" asked Dave, setting down the whisky- bottle empty. "Yes," said Mills thoughtfully. "Plenty." He shouted for a boy, and one came running.
You'll have whisky, or gin?" The Frenchman pronounced for whisky, and took it neat. Mills stared. "If I took off a dose like that," he observed, "I should be as drunk as an owl. You know how to shift it!" "Eh?" "Gimme patience," prayed the trader. "You bleat like a yowe. I said you can take it, the drink. Savvy? Wena poosa meningi sterrik. Have some more?" "Oh yais," smiled the guest.
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