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Write, Mortimer Morley, General Delivery, N. Y. Post-Office. "Thought that'd catch you," chuckled Mr. Spofford, in great self-congratulation. "'Jones'll see into this, I says to myself. 'If he don't, I'll explain. Somethin' to that, ay?" Average Jones looked from the advertisement to the vacuous smile of Mr. Algernon Spofford. "Oh, you'll explain, will you?" he said softly.
If we bail out of this tub in space suits, who's going to pick us up?" "We're not bailing out!" said Loring. "We're not? Then what are we suiting up for?" "Just in case," said Loring. "Now listen to me. In a few minutes the Annie Jones'll make contact with traffic control. Only instead of talking to the pilot they'll be talking to us. Because we'll have taken over."
"No I won't; I won't show a yellow streak like that. Besides, I want to give 'em to you fellows." A blank silence followed my statement, to which Jim replied: "Shore that'll be easy; Jones'll have 'em, so'll Emett, an' by thunder I'm scratchin' now." "Navvy, look here," I said severely, "mucha no bueno! heap bad!
"'Miss Pixley, if you please, she says. "'All right, I says. ''N' while we're at it Mr. Jones'll suit me. "'Fade away, she says, 'n' I see she's got a couple of dimples. 'Mr. Jones don't suit you. "'Make it Blister, then, I says. "'You're on, she says. 'And you can stick to girlie. "Say, she was a great little dame; she makes a hit with me the first dash out of the box.
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