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Updated: May 7, 2025
"Zere's no great sorrer gnawin' chure vitals, is zere, Moffski?" "I vas all ride." "Not sufferin' f'om any mad r'gret, 'r misplaced love, 'rensing zat kind, eh, Woffski?" "No." "Feeling jush sames' ushyal?" "Yah." "Zen 'sall right. Don't 'pol'gize, 's all right. Zere was somepin' 'n you're looksh made me shink p'raps yu's feeling trifle in'sposed.
Might have nightmare. Don't shink 's good f' me t' shee too much, ol' f'law." "Listen." The little round orator, refreshed and reinvigorated, began again. "You must arm yoursellef, my prudders. You must haf guns und powder und ball und " "Dynamite!" yelled several. "Yah. Dot vas der drue veapon uf der zoshul refolushun. Dynamite! You must plenty haf.
There I caught a glimpse of a little head with two black eyes, like a prairie-dog's, peering out of a crevice, and I was just in time to see him open his small jaws and say "shink" about as a rusty hinge would pronounce it. I whipped my revolver out of my belt and fired, but the little fellow dodged the bullet and was gone.
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