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"Well, sir, in twinty-eight minyits be th' clock Dewey he had all th' Spanish boats sunk, an' that there harbor lookin' like a Spanish stew. Thin he r-run down th' bay, an' handed a few war-rm wans into th' town. He set it on fire, an' thin wint ashore to war-rm his poor hands an' feet. It chills th' blood not to have annything to do f'r an hour or more." "Thin why don't he write something?" Mr.
Old Dougal turned his thumb toward a bench and bade them be seated. "It's a bit war-rm," MacDonald opined, by way of opening the conversation. "What else wad it be this time o' year?" Dougal rumbled. "Tell us somethin' we dinna ken. Wha's yon cam' wi' ye?" "Man, but the heat makes ye crabbed," MacDonald returned with naïve candor. "Yon's a meenister." "Bagosh, yes," Breyette chuckled.
Whin ye say to a man, 'Git ap, whoa, gee, back up, get alang! he don't know what ye'er dhrivin' at or to. But a mule hears th' ordhers with a melancholy smile, dhroops his ears, an' follows his war-rm, moist breath. Th' ordhers fr'm Washin'ton is perfectly comprehinsible to a jackass, but they don't mane annything to a poor, foolish man.
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