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Updated: May 27, 2025
Says he, 'All is forgiven. Then she flies to receive his dyin' words. You ain't got no brains, Curly. You ain't got no imagination. Why, if I left all this to you, she'd get here too late for the funeral. You're a specialist, Curly. You can rope and throw a two-thousand-pound steer, but you can't handle a woman that don't weigh over a hundred and twenty-five. Now, you watch your Pa."
His clothes were few and dirty and he was awkwardly conscious that his hands and face were black. But his employer claimed his attention. "What would you reckon the weight of the stuff?" Dick told him after a short silence, and Fuller asked: "Two-thousand-pound tons?" "Yes; I turned it into American weight."
Another present was the "Admiral," a naval officer, commanding the monstrous guns of twelve to seventeen inches mounted on railway trucks, who wrote sonnets between directing two-thousand-pound projectiles on their errands of mashing German dugouts. He did not like gunnery where he did not see his target naval fashion, but he had done so well that he was kept at it.
But it was only another gun, a giant tube of steel painted in frog patches to hide it from aerial observation; only another gun, though it sent a two-thousand-pound projectile to a target ten miles away, which a man from a sausage balloon said was "on."
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