But I don't go; old Hickey excloodes me, an' my hopes of moosical eminence rots down right thar. "'It's mebby two days later when I'm over by the postoffice gettin' the weekly paper for my old gent. Thar's goin' to be a Gander-Pullin' by torchlight that evenin' over to Hickman's Mills with a dance at the heel of the hunt. But I ain't allowin' to be present none.
'Thar's a party, now deceased a whole lot the Stranblers over in Socorro sort o' chaperones this yere gent to a cottonwood an' excloodes the air from his lungs with a lariat for mebby it's an hour-an' this party I'm alloodin' at, which his name is Fowler, is plumb murderous.
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