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"Yep," continued Racey, sitting back against the cantle, "she's a long creek that don't bend some'ers or other." And then the creek that was his flow of thought shot round a bend into the broad and sparkling reaches of a much pleasanter subject than the one that had to do with Harpes and Tweezys and Joneses.
He regretfully ate the last crumb, and rolled a cigarette. He felt fairly full and at utter peace with the world. Why not? Wasn't it a good old world, and a mighty friendly world despite the Harpes and Tweezys and Joneses that infested it? I should say so. Racey Dawson inhaled luxuriously, pushed back his wide hat, and let the breeze ruffle his brown hair.
"I ain't lost any Luke Tweezys," observed Racey, looking up at the ceiling. "I wonder how long Luke is figuring on staying in town," went on Judge Dolan, sticking like a stamp to his original subject. "Nothing to me." "It might be. It might be. You never can tell about them things, Racey." Racey Dawson's eyes came down from the ceiling. He studied the Judge's face attentively.
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