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A bob-cat," he added with his peculiar chuckle, "that'd yell when he went a-huntin' wouldn't take long ter starve. 'N' the wilder a thing is, the moh uncomplainin' hit is, too. Shoot a fox, 'n' he'll pull hisse'f along till he drops daid jest grittin' his teeth 'n' standin' hit; but a dawg'll holler somethin' awful. Hit's most allers that-a-way with birds, too.
"That dawg'll kill them sheep," said Daws Dillon aloud. Joel's face was red and his eyes rolled. "Call that damned feist back, I tell ye," he shouted at last. "Hyeh, Rube, git my gun, git my gun!" Rube started for the house, but Chad laughed.
I'm goin' up to Murree in a week. That dawg'll bring fifteen rupees anywheres." "You had better spend it in Masses," said Terence, unbuckling his belt, for he had been on the prisoner's guard, standing helmeted and bolt up right for three long hours. "Not me," said Ortheris cheerfully. "Gawd'll put it down to B Comp'ny's barrick damages one o' these days. You look strapped, Terence."
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