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"Yo' won't be in this country to contest it," Kid Wolf drawled. "This won't in any way repay Red fo' the loss of his brothah, but it's something. Yo' can do as yo' like about signin' it." "Then of course I won't sign!" snarled the other. "The honest cattlemen at Skull will probably hang yo'," reminded The Kid softly. Beads of sweat suddenly stood out on Gentleman John's forehead.
"You're a sly one, you are," George gloated "always signin' your name 'P. Sybarite' and pretendin' your maiden monaker was 'Peter'! But now we know you! Take off them whiskers Perceval!" A really wise mind-reader would have called a policeman, then and there; for mayhem was the least of the crimes contemplated by P. Sybarite.
An' another of 'em war signin, at me agin an' agin, like he was drawin' a cross in the air one pass down an' then one across an' the other reb war jes' laffin' fur joy, and wunst in a while he yelled out: 'Blessin's on ye! Blessin's! Blessin's! I dun'no' how fur I hearn that sayin'. The rocks round the creek war repeatin' it, whenst I crossed the f oot-bredge.
D'ye mind if I say somethin'?" he asked at last. Jondo looked up with that smile that could warm any man's heart. "Say on," he commanded, kindly. "You aint never signin' your own name nowhere, it sorter seems." Jondo shook his head. "Didn't you and this Clarenden outfit go through here 'bout ten years ago one night?
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