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Updated: May 11, 2025
"What trick's he played?" Matthews evaded the question. "I seen one of the Clark outfit," he continued, "and tried t' git him t' bother old limpy. Says I, 'They's stealin' your slow-elk down there. Wasn't any use. 'Thunderation! says the cow-punch. 'You mean that bull? He was a yearlin' when he come to 'em. That's maverick age." Braden sneered. "Such a kid!" he murmured.
The first glance told him there was something unusual, and his curiosity led him to approach and scan it closely. There was some writing scrawled upon it, which he read with little difficulty. The words were startling enough, and as the hunter finished them he exclaimed, in a frightened undertone: "Thunderation! can it be possible?"
Skinny pawed around until there wasn't a whole egg left in the box. At the first crunch Leon laughed hilariously. "I knowed you'd lose!" he cackled. "Giff me the money!" "You win, Leon!" the Ramblin' Kid laughed, handing over the wager. "Skinny wasn't as delicate on his feet as he thought he was!" "Thunderation, that's funny!"
"Wherever you be," he began slowly, "as occasion permits, you're going to air them sentiments?" "I'm going to live them. I may never have a chance to preach them. I'm a bit discouraged about the weakness that followed my first attempt." "Oh, thunderation! You're going to pick up flesh and strength fast enough it's that slush you've got on board that's getting my grouch.
The moment the last word fell from the lips of Barkswell Keene darted forward, full at the throat of the villain before him. "Thunderation!" With this exclamation Barkswell dropped his lantern and clinched with the detective. Both went to the floor in a terrible struggle for the mastery.
"Mark Riley's been goin' to put up them bills sence day 'fore yesterday," said Anderson Crow, with exasperation in his voice, "an he ain't done it yet. The agent fer the troupe left 'em here an' hired Mark, but he's so thunderation slow that he won't paste 'em up 'til after the show's been an' gone. I'll give him a talkin' to to-morrer." "What-fer show is it?" asked Jim Borum.
Then: "Zelotes?" "Yes," impatiently. "What is it?" "It's her boy, after all, isn't it? Our grandson, yours and mine. Don't you think don't you think it's your duty to go, Zelotes?" Captain Lote stamped his foot. "For thunderation sakes, Olive, let up!" he commanded. "You ought to know by this time that there's one thing I hate worse than doin' my duty, that's bein' preached to about it. Let up!
It was written in the ridiculous dialect which was once thought to be the dress of humor; and while here and there is a comic flash, there is in it little promise of the future Mark Twain. One extract is enough: "When we got to the depo', I went around to git a look at the iron hoss. Thunderation! It wasn't no more like a hoss than a meetin'- house.
Makes it in less 'n six days, they say. Let's see. They sailed day before yesterday. They must be out sight o' land by this time." "Yes, unless they're passin' some islands," agreed Blootch. "Thunderation! What air you talkin' about?" said Anderson scornfully. "Cuby an' Porty Rico's been passed long ago. Them islands ain't far from Boston.
"Why, you poor kid," breathed Pearlie, her pale eyes fixed on him in motherly pity. "You oughtn't to do that. You'll get so thin your girl won't know you." Sam looked up quickly. "How in thunderation did you know ?"
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