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"Las' year, hit war hall the cry, 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt o' Cunnigarn's mongreals! 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt o' Thompson's mongreals! 'We'll make hit 'ot f'r 'em! Han wot war the hupshot? 'Stiddy! ses Hi 'w'e 's y' proofs? 'Proof be dam! ses they 'don't we know? They know a 'ell of a lot! "Han what were the hupshot?
Well, heverybody Muster Magomery his self, no less heverybody ses, 'Ole hon t' we gits a holt of 'em fellers' mongreals! bin leavin' three o' hour gates hopen; an' the yowes an' weaners is boxed; an' puttin' a file through Nosey Half's 'oss-paddick, an' workin' hon it with 'er steers! 'Stiddy! ses Hi 'w'e's y'r proofs? Way it war, Collings; 'ere come a dose o' rain jis' harter, an' yer could n't track.
Presinkly, up comes Half, an 'is 'oss hall of a lather. 'Take yer dem mongreals, ses Muster Magomery; 'an' don' hoversleep y'self agin. Think Half war goin' ter flog 'is hanimals thirty mile back? Not 'im" "It would hardly be right," I agreed. "Well, I must be jogging" "Not 'im," pursued Jack.
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