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"La, Brothah Hayward, ef it ain't you; howdy; come in." "Howdy, howdy, Sistah Griggs, how you come on?" "Oh, I's des tol'able," industriously dusting a chair. "How's yo'se'f?" "I's right smaht, thankee ma'am." "W'y, Brothah Hayward, ain't you los' down in dis paht of de town?" "No, indeed, Sistah Griggs, de shep'erd ain't nevah los' no whaih dey's any of de flock."
Two miles below the two men could see the little post known as Mexican Tanks, scattered out in a fertile, cottonwood-grown valley. With one accord, they shook hands. "Now will yo' believe me," asked the Texan, "when I tell yo' that Blizzahd's a smaht hoss?" Dave Robbins grinned. "So's his master," he chuckled. "And speakin' o' Blizzard again, I guess we owe him some water and a peck of oats.
"Yah, yah, yah!" jeered one of the negroes who had come up with Foreman Corbett, as he gazed contemptuously up and down the bulky figure of Mr. Ebony. "Yo' done been tellin' us 'spectable cullud fo'ks dat de great way to injye life was to be tough an' smaht, lak yo'se'f. How ye' feel erbout it now? Doan' yo' wish yo' been mo' 'spectable yo'se'f?
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