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Quaint little spot, Bulgaroo; chiefly corrugated iron villas and kangaroo scrub, two hundred-odd miles back from Sidney. I'm due there at the end of next month." "My regards to the Bulgaroovians," says I. "Is this just a whim of yours, or a crazy plan?" says Pinckney. "Both," says Larry. "No. 6 is where I went to do penance when the Earl and I had our grand smashup.
Actually, I shall probably take an amazing thirst into Bulgaroo about once a month, buy vile champagne at the Queen's Arms, and otherwise disport myself like a true sheepherder. The finis will not sound pretty." Pinckney stares at him puzzled for a minute, and then turns to me. "Shorty," says he, "you're a Celt. What do you make of him?"
Sam Steele." "Wha-a-at?" says she. "Of all persons! And when did that start, I'd like to know?" "Eight years back," says I. "She was Katie the nurse, and this is their second act. Anyway, he ducks Bulgaroo by it." First place, Swifty Joe should have let the subject drop.
"I'd not load one of them with a wild, impecunious Irishman like myself." "Then what?" says Pinckney. "Also where, and whither?" "Bulgaroo," says Larry, wavin' vague into space. "Is that a form of self-destruction?" asks Pinckney. "Almost," says Larry. "It's the nearest town to Sir Horace Vaughn's No. 6 sheep ranch.
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