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"B'lieve it? Think-I-can't?" The three turned circumspectly and stared solemnly at a gray burro with a crippled front leg that had limped to the dump heap within easy throwing distance from the cabin door. Hobbling on three legs it went nosing painfully amongst a litter of tin cans and bent paper cartons, hunting garbage.
As if conscious that it was being talked about, the burro lifted its head and eyed the four mournfully, its ears loosely flopping. "How?" questioned Paw, waggling his beard disparagingly. "Spit 'n 'is eye?" "Talk 'm t' death," Hank guessed with imbecile shrewdness. "Think-I-can't? What'll y'bet?"
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