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"Marse Rupert," he said, "dis hyer's a pow'fle scorcher of a mawnin'. Dem young lawyers as shets up dey office an' comes home to lie in de grass in de shade, dey is follerin' up dey perfession in de profitablest way what'll be likely to bring 'em de mos' clients, 'cause, sho's yo' bawn, dere's sunstroke an' 'cussion or de brain just lopin' roun' dis town en a little hot brick office ain't no place for a young man what got any dispect fur his next birfday.
Dat's so." "I haven't much respect for mine," said Rupert; "I've had twenty-two too many just twenty-two." "'Scusin' me sayin' it, sah, but dat ain't no way ter talk. A man boun' to have some dispect for his birfday he boun' to! Birfdays gotter be took keer on. Whar's a man when he runs out of 'em?" "He'd better run out of them before he runs out of everything else," said Rupert.
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