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When he had warmed over a pot of beans and a slab of sour-dough bread, he set the table for one and proceeded to eat. "No, thank you," Shorty murmured. "We ain't a bit hungry. We et just before we come." "Let's see your papers," Smoke said at last. Sanderson fumbled under the head of his bunk and tossed out a package of documents. "It's all tight and right," he said.

But here's your drink, Sour-dough. Maybe it will cheer you up." Extraordinary! I mean to say, biting through nails. "Three rousing cheers!" exclaimed Cousin Egbert with more animation than I had ever known him display. "Here's looking at you, Colonel," said his friend to me, whereupon I partook of the drink, not wishing to offend him. Decidedly he was not vogue.

Or yuh might see me with ten pounds uh flour, a quart uh beans an' a sour-dough bucket on my back. Whichever way the game breaks you'll be seein' Casey Ryan; an' you'll see 'im settin' in the game an' ready t' push his last white chip to the center." "I believe it, Casey. Darned if I don't. Well, you drive 'er awhile; till yuh get tired, anyway."

"And 's far as licking me goes " He stopped to blow warmth upon his fingers, which were numbed with their grasp of the poker. "As for licking me, I guess you'll have to do that on the strength uh bacon and sour-dough biscuits; if you do it at all, which I claim the privilege uh doubting a whole lot."

Did she still blame him for hitting her with that double-jack? when he knew and she knew that she had made him do it! and if she didn't like his sour-dough biscuits, why in thunder had she kept telling him she did? He tucked the incident away in the back of his mind, meaning to watch her and find out just what she did mean, anyway.

Say, Bo," he continued to me as I was striving to divine the drift of these comments, "have I got my fingers crossed or not?" Seeing that he held one hand behind him I thought to humour him by saying, "I fancy so, sir." "He means 'yes," said Cousin Egbert. The other held his hand before me with the first two fingers spread wide apart. "You lost," he said. "How's that, Sour-dough?

A lard bucket was his coffee-pot, his stewing kettle, his sour-dough can. He made mulligan in one lard bucket and boiled beans in another. The outside cover made a good soap dish, and the inside cover answered well enough for a mirror when he shaved. He wrung out his dishcloth now and hung it on a nail, then eyed the bed in the end of the cabin disapprovingly.

She looked so harmless and weak that the idea that she might prove dangerous never entered his head. The kettle began to sing and a moment later the water was boiling hard. "I can't offer you much of a meal, Miss Nelson," he said, seeking to make his voice as pleasant as possible. "You've probably never tried sour-dough biscuits. Mrs.

When I started, I'd put a couple of sour-dough biscuits and some sowbelly in my pocket in case I might get hungry. And I'm tellin' you that lunch came in right handy before I was done with it. "Bime-by I hit upon the likeliest little birch saplin', right in the middle of a clump of jack pine. Jest as I raised my hand-ax I happened to cast my eyes down the hill.

Whadda I want a wife for, anyway? Sour-dough biscuits tastes pretty good, and Casey sure can make 'em!" He got out his pipe, filled it and crammed down the tobacco, found a match and leaned back, smoking with relish, one leg thrown over the wheel. "A man's best friend is his Ford," he exclaimed. "You can ask anybody."