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"Think that stiff-arm gesture and bark might have been intended to represent a rifle?" Gerd van Riebeek asked. "He'd seen you shooting before, hadn't he?" "I don't think it was anything else. He was telling me, 'Big nasty damnthing outside; shoot it like you did the harpy. And if he hadn't run past me and pointed back, that damnthing would have killed me."
He had a good deal the same views about the quarter-back, in fact he took what they call a purely personal estimate of life. He showed me how to play football. It's pleasant pastime, but too excitin' for a frail thing like me. He gave me his cap to carry, an' told me to back off about twenty feet, an' try to run over him, or stick my stiff-arm in his face or dodge him any way at all to get by.
"What's the matter with your eyesight? Did you think I was combing my hair?" "Don't you feel well?" Shorty queried anxiously, as Smoke broke a third egg and dexterously thrust him back with a stiff-arm jolt on the breast. "Or are you just plain loco? That's thirty dollars' worth of eggs already." "And I'm going to make it sixty dollars' worth," was the answer, as Smoke broke the fourth.
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