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"We'll do it cross the crick, at daylight. "It's daylight now," said Sim Ripson, hurriedly, after looking out of his window at the end of the bar. He was a good storekeeper, was Sam Ripson, and he knew how to mix drinks, but he had an unconquerable aversion to washing blood stains out of the floor.

Sim Ripson filled a glass for himself, looked a second at the crowd, and dropping his eyes, raised them again, looked as if he had something to say, looked intently into his glass, as if espying some irregularity, looked up again, and exclaimed: "Boys, it's no use mebbe ther's no hell mebbe the Bible contradicts itself, but but ther is a heaven, or such folks would never git their just dues.

"He's been exposed already, by lookin' in to the feller's shanty, an's prob'bly hurt ez bad as he's goin' to be." "I might go," said Sim Ripson, who, in his character of barkeeper, had to sustain a reputation for bravery and public spirit, "but 'twouldn't do to shut up the store, ye know, an' specially the bar nobody'd stan' it."

Sim Ripson leaped over the bar and separated them. "No rasslin' here!" said he. "When gentlemen gits too mad to hold in, an' shoots at sight, I hev to stan' it, but rasslin's vulgar you'll hev to go out o' doors to do it." "I'll hev it out with him with pistols, then!" cried Redwing, picking up his weapon. "'Greed!" roared Flip, whose pistol lay on the table.

As a natural consequence, Sim Ripson began to have inquiries for articles which he had never heard of, much less sold, and he found a hurried trip to 'Frisco was an actual business necessity. As several miners took their departure, after one of these culinary lessons, Arkansas Bill, with a mysterious air, took Fourteenth Street aside.

Ripson, Pipson, Nipson? it's not complimentary, but I can't remember names of that sort. Why do you have friends of that sort? He's not a gentleman. Better is he? Well, he's rather too insignificant for me. Why do you sit off there? Come to me instantly. There I'll sit up, and be proper, and you'll have plenty of room. Talk, Dick!" He was reflecting on the fact that her eyes were brown.

One evening, as the crowd were quietly drinking and betting, Arkansas Bill suddenly opened the door of the store, and cried: "She's mendin'! The fever's broke 'sh-h!" "My treat, boys," said Sim Ripson, hurrying glasses and favorite bottles on the bar.

Ripson, Pipson, Nipson? it's not complimentary, but I can't remember names of that sort. Why do you have friends of that sort? He's not a gentleman. Better is he? Well, he's rather too insignificant for me. Why do you sit off there? Come to me instantly. There I'll sit up, and be proper, and you'll have plenty of room. Talk, Dick!" He was reflecting on the fact that her eyes were brown.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat. A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded the river, exclaimed: "She's comin'!"

That night Sim Ripson complained that it had been the poorest Sunday he had ever had at Tough Case; the boys drank, but it was a sort of nerveless, unbusinesslike way that Sim Ripson greatly regretted; and very few bets were settled in Sim Ripson's principal stock in trade. When Sim finally learned the cause of his trouble, he promptly announced his intention of converting Mrs.