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Updated: May 7, 2025
Byron proposed to express his opinion, to say what he dad-burned pleases, though the redoubtable Lieutenant-Colonel Rienzi Miltiades Johnsing, of Houston, who does all the ICONOCLAST'S fighting under yearly contract, should swoop down upon him like a double-barreled besom of destruction, "With death-shot glowing in his fiery hand And eye that scorcheth all it looks upon."
"Edzactly so," he declared. "Ye never hurt nobody, did ye, Tobe?" She had turned very pale. "I 'lowed it couldn't be the wind ez I hearn a-hollerin'." "I hopes an' prays I hurt 'em," he said, as he replaced the rifle in the rack. He was shaking the other hand, which had been jarred in some way by the hasty discharge of the weapon. "Some dad-burned horse-thief war arter the mare.
Oh, you dad-burned idiot you ignorant baboon you were drunk, that's why you signed up!" Rimrock's pitiful rage at that other personality that had marred his fair hopes in his mine that perverse, impulsive, overweening inner spirit that took the helm at each crisis of his life was a rage to make the gods above weep if they did not laugh at the jest.
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