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Wrennie called down, sternly, "I ain't no theological student, Pete, and I don't mind profanity, but I wish you wouldn't talk like a garbage-scow." "Hey, Poicy, did yuh bring your dictionary?" Pete bellowed to Tim, two feet distant from him. To Wrennie, "Say, Gladys, ain't you afraid one of them long woids like, t'eological, will turn around and bite you right on the wrist?"
"How about it?" he shouted, advancing toward me triumphantly, shaking his forefinger in my face. "Hey? THAT stings some, does it? Sounds kind o' like a FALSE name, does it? Got ye where the hair is short, that time, didn't I?" "Speaking of names," I retorted, "'Oil Poicy' doesn't seem to ring particularly true to me!" "It'll be gud enough fer you, young feller," he responded angrily.
At all events, the surface of his easy assurance appeared somewhat disarranged; and, perhaps to restore it by performing the rites of etiquette, he said: "Well, I expec' the smart thing now is to pass the cards, but mine's in my grip an' it ain't unpacked yet. The name you'd see on 'em is Oil Poicy." "Oil Poicy," echoed Miss Elliott, turning to me in genuine astonishment. "Mr.
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