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Updated: May 15, 2025
"No one's goin' to blame you," said Slanty, "an' the devil's own pity it is that that blasted Drywig of a brother of his keeps him in leadin' strings the way he does." "The way I'll do is this: I'll ask him up to look at the pattern of my new waistcoat, an' wanst I get him in, all I have to do is to lay it on thick."
"Well, if Nelson's not the man, who is?" "Drywig's his name," replied Harte; "you all know one Drywig, don't you?" "Quit your cursed stuff, Harte," said a new speaker, named Garvey; "if you think you can dose him, say so, and if not, let us have no more talk about it."
Hello! there's the bell, boys, so mind what I tould yez; we'll give him a farewell benefit, if it was only for the sake of poor Drywig. Ah, poor Drywig! how will he live widout him? Ochone, ochone! ha, ha, ha!"
One day, about a month after the conversation which we have just detailed between the two brothers, the following conversation took place among that class of the mechanics whom we shall term the profligates: "So he made a solemn promise, Harte, to Drywig" this was a nickname they had for Frank "that he'd never smell liquor again."
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