"What is the trouble? What are you running from?" "'Fore Gawd, Mars Alfred, sperrits! Sperrits, sir." "Do you mean that you want a dram to steady your nerves?" "I'm that frustrated I couldn't say what I want; but I didn't signify bottle and jimmyjohn liquor, I mean sperrits, sir, ghosts what walk, and make the hair rise like wire all over your head.
The clay had buried the spirit like a caving pit. "Twas false jewelry all right!" he roared, at the top of his voice. "A good old jimmyjohn full, boss. Say, boss, goin' to run our jimmyjohn off the ranch? Try it on, kid. Come over and try it on!" The bull beat on the table. Dean Drake had sat quickly down in his chair, his gray eye upon the hulking buccaroo.