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Updated: May 23, 2025
A wad like this takes you thinkin', that is, ef you ain't a low-down rattle-brain like Pete, or a psalm-smitin' son-of-a-moose like that feller, Buck. Course they ain't got no sort o' savvee, anyways, so they don't count nuthin'. But wi' a feller like me things is diff'rent. Now, this is what I got fixed. Y' see you can't have no sort of a time in this yer camp, but it's diff'rent in Leeson Butte.
Nor ain't we goin' to stuff 'em an' set 'em up as objec's o' ridicool to the ungodly hogs wot wallers in the swill o' no adulteratin' son-of-a-moose of a dealer in liver pizen. No, gents, that ain't us. We're goin' to save 'em. An' I personal guarantees that savin' racket goes. Did I hear any mangy son-of-a-coyote guess he didn't believe no such guarantee? No, an' I guess he best not.
Down came the fist, a great, white fist, with a soggy sound upon the man's pulpy features, its force increased a hundred per cent. by the resistance of the hard ground on which his adversary lay. A fierce curse was the response, and a wild upward slash at the big face above. Then the big fist went up again. "Drop it, you son-of-a-moose," Kate heard, in Big Brother Bill's fiercest tones.
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