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He had recognized the big man standing at the barrel. It was Ben the Englishman. Mundy and Peters, obviously drunk, stood close to him. The little San-Franciscan was standing in the body of the wagon, trying to put his two short arms about the barrel. He had the grotesque look of a dwarf embracing a fat wife. He could look to no one for help.
The foreman here, a South-of-Market San-Franciscan by his speech, shouted a command to one of the drivers and came up to Truxton. "Whatcher want to-day?" he demanded. "Ten foot?" "Nine," Truxton told him, shortly. "Nine an' a half by the time you get to that first stake. Nine three-quarters at the second. Can you get that far to-day?"
They shrugged their shoulders. Only the Lark answered. "I know, pal," he said, slowly. "I seen it." "All right. You wait a minute. I want to talk with you. You other fellows get busy." The little San-Franciscan dropped back and waited. Conniston came up with him and demanded shortly: "Tell me about it." "It was last night, 'bo, about 'leven o'clock, I guess.
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