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"He never was no class," objected Dixon. "If ye'd see him gallop the day he run away, ye'd think he had class," said Mike. "Bot' tumbs up! ye'd a t'ought it was the flyin' Salvator." "Well, we'll soon know all about it," declared Dixon. "There's the saddlin' bell. Have you weighed out, Redpath? Weight all right, ninety-two pounds?" "All right, sir.
The Indian group listened to this weird instrument with the profoundest gravity. If there is anything inherently comic in our low comics it was entirely lost on them. "Now de' tumbs is you and your fader, de first finger is you and your mudder, ze next is you and your sister, ze little finger is you and your brudder, ze ring finger is you and your sweetheart.
The rosy hue of eager joyousness that had crept into Gaynor's suntanned face vanished; his jaw drooped, and a pathetic look of sheepish apology followed. "That's so," he ejaculated, mournfully; "bot' tumbs up! but it's a pity. Carson's an Irish gintleman, an' if I could till him ye was a gurl, he'd knock the head plumb off any b'y that 'ud bother ye. Ye'd git away well, too."
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