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Updated: June 17, 2025
I throwed away my emp'y gun, an' drawed my bowie, expectin' nothin' else than a regular stand-up tussle wi' the bar. I knowd it wur no use turnin' tail now; so I braced myself up for a desp'rate fight. "But jest as the bar hed got 'ithin ten feet o' me, an idee suddintly kim into my head. I hed been to Santa Fe, among them yaller-hided Mexikins, whur I hed seed two or three bull-fights.
"Oh I wonder whur my baby's done gone, Oh Lawd! An' I git on my knees an' pray." The song stopped, a negro boy sprang out the kitchen-door and ran for the stiles a tall, strong, and very black boy with a dancing eye, white teeth, and a look of welcome that was little short of dumb idolatry. "Howdy, Bob." "Howdy, Ole Cap'n."
The soul of the painter has projected itself thrugh the august glooms." "Don't see it," sez I. "Them shadders want glazin and the middletints is no whur. The creteck regarded me With Contemptoous indignashun. "Hullo!" sed I next, "whose been and stolen a signboard, and stuck it up in this refined society?" "To what do you defer?" sez he, still very fridgid.
I rose to try and get them out of the office; but a sober man with tied arms among a drunken crew is at a disadvantage. "Ha old wise sh head! To be sh shure! Whur d' y' hide it?" "Throw it out of the window," said I, without the slightest idea of leading him into mischief. "Whish whish ish the window, Rufush?" asked Louis imploringly.
'Plaise ye, worshipful masters, he said, being feared of the gateway, 'carn 'e tull whur our Jan Ridd be? 'Hyur a be, ees fai, Jan Ridd, answered a sharp little chap, making game of John Fry's language. 'Zhow un up, then, says John Fry poking his whip through the bars at us; 'Zhow un up, and putt un aowt.
Nick wondered if his own mother's back would be so bent when she grew old. "Whur be-est going, Nick?" Roger Dawson sat astride a stick of timber in front of Master Geoffrey Thompson's new house, watching Tom Carpenter the carver cut fleur-de-lis and curling traceries upon the front wall beams. He was a tenant-farmer's son, this Roger, and a likely good-for-naught.
"Whoy whoy, zummers over there a bit yon, zure"; and he waved his hand about in a way that pointed to nowhere at all. "When will he be back?" asked Nick, desperately. "Be ba-ack?" drawled the workman, slowly taking up his saw again; "back whur? here? Whoy, a wun't pla-ay here no mo-ore avore next Martlemas." Martinmas? That was almost mid-November. It was now but middle May.
"You'll like her, too, all righty," he told Bruce confidently, "whend you git broke to her." On one of youth's candid impulses to speak up for the life on the inside, the cherished desire, the gallant ideal, the buoyant fancy, he made a supple, sudden divergence in the conversation. "D'you know," he said, "they aint no place whur I'd drur be than Mizzourah ceppen only one."
"I wur going to say, missus, as my mäaster up at Garlinge Green, whur I wur afore I took to the Marsh at Botolph's Bridge my mäaster, Mus' Pebsham, had a valiant set of Spanish ship, as big as liddle cattle; you shud ought to have seen them." "Did he do any crossing with 'em?" "No, missus leastways not whiles I wur up at the Green." Joanna stared through the thick red sunset to the horizon.
"I am going there," I said; "I will show you the way." "Whur is't?" he asked, not moving. I pointed to the lights of the inn, flickering across the fields. "Yonder beyond the second turn of the road," I said, and, as he showed no signs of accompanying me, I added, "I am rather late." "Oh, I ain't goin' there t'night. It's too dark t' see anything now," he remarked, to my astonishment.
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