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Having changed his tobacco from the right to the left side of his mouth, he strangles badly. It takes him just five minutes to get a free breath. This is always a good sign. Thereupon the darkest of negro lads, with six fingers, a lick, left-handed and cross-eyed, enters the barroom of the hotel. "Here!" cries Corkey. "What's your name?" The boy stammers in his speech. "N-n-n-noah!" he replies.
"Why not?" inquires Corkey. "You bet your sweet life you tell me what your name is!" "N-n-n-noah!" "Why not? Tell me that!" "M-m-my name is N-n-noah!" exclaims the boy. "Ho! ho!" laughs Corkey. "Let's see them fingers! Got any more in your pockets?" "N-n-n-noah," answers the boy. "Got six toes, too?" "Y-y-yes, sah!" "A dead mascot!" says Corkey. It is an auspice of the most eminent fortune.
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