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Updated: May 15, 2025
"'Ah Moy rich, he continued, unnoticing; 'got plenty money, habee heap house one in 'Flisco, one in San Looey, one here in this city. He want get mallied; lovee gal, 'flaid tell her. 'Flaid makee mad. Ah Moy bashful! "'Really? said Miss Cragiemuir with interest, wondering which of the two or three women at the Mission he meant, 'In love! Oh, Ah Moy, how romantic! Who is she?
"Some bean ye got, Cap," congratulated Tim, vastly relieved at sight of McKay's gray stare. "Bullet bounced right off. Here, take another swaller. Attaboy! Hey, Looey, we better pack this crease o' Cap's, huh? She keeps leakin'." "Yep. Dip up the surgical kit. And give José a drink. I'll have to tie his artery, too. How do you feel, old chap?" "Dizzy," McKay confessed. "What's happened?"
But shucks! it never made no difference what you won in that crowd. They had done Doctor Kirby and Looey like they always done a drummer or a stranger that come along to that town and was fool enough to play poker with them. They wasn't a chancet fur an outsider. If the drummer lost, they would take his money and that would be all they was to it.
And, sir, for three months he don't have to think about business except to hunt around in Deuteronomy and Proverbs and Timothy to find texts to cover and exculpate such little midsummer penances as dropping a couple of looey door on rouge or teaching a Presbyterian widow to swim. "But I was going to tell you about mine and Andy's summer vacation that wasn't one.
And then he shut up, and didn't say nothing fur a hull hour, except oncet he laughed. Fur Doctor Kirby, he says, winking at me: "Looey, here, is a nihilist." "Is he," says I, "what's that?" And the doctor tells me about how they blow up dukes and czars and them foreign high-mucky-mucks with dynamite. Which is when Looey laughed.
"What kind of business are you going into?" asts the doctor. "I am going to be an undertaker," says Looey. "My aunt says this town needs the right kind of an undertaker bad." Mr. Wilcox, the undertaker that town has, is getting purty old and shaky, Looey says, and young Mr. Wilcox, his son, is too light-minded and goes at things too brisk and airy to give it the right kind of a send-off.
D'ye mind that time, Looey?" Knowlton nodded. He remembered also that Tim, shot down from behind and almost killed, had reeled up to his feet and bayoneted his man before falling the second time. Wherefore he replied: "He isn't the same one, Tim." "Nope," grimly. "That one won't never come back.
The question made "Red" a bit nervous. He jumped to the floor, and then sat down in the chair beside the table, pretending to be very much at ease. "Like that traveling man from Saint Looey," he explained. "She thought she cared for him. I tried to tell her different. I had to run him out of town with a gun to prove it. But even then she didn't believe it until that New York surveyor come along."
"Aw, Looey, I only said these guys were good-lookin'. Ain't no fight in words like that." "You heard the orders this morning. Let Lourenço do the talking. That goes! We're skating on thin ice so thin that if it breaks we drop plump into hell. Less noise!" "Right, sir," was the sulky answer. "I'm deaf and dumb." "March," added McKay.
"Yet at dinner that night everything seemed fine, with old Angus as jovial as I'd ever seen him, and the meal come to a cheerful end and we was having coffee in the Looey de Medisee saloon, I think it is, before a word was said about this here injured hotel. "'You were far too modest this morning, you sly dog! says Angus, peer, at last, chuckling delightedly. 'You misled me grievously.
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