If I
meets a gent evolvin' outcries of glee, an' walkin' on both sides of
the street, an' most likely emptyin' a Colt's pistol at the
firmament, an' all without obv'ous cause, I dedooces the presence in
that gent's interior of a lib'ral freight of nose-paint. If, as I'm
proceedin' about my destinies, I hears the voice of a gun, I argues
the existence of a weepon in my vicinity. If the lead tharfrom cuts
my saddle-horn, or creases my pony, or plugs a double hole in my
sombrero, or some sech little play, I dies to a theery that the
knight errant who's back of the racket means me, onlimbers my field
piece, an' enters into the sperit of the eepisode. Which I gives you
this in almost them very words before. Still, signs an' omens in
what Doc Peets would term their 'occultisms,' I passes up. I
wouldn't live in them apprehensions that beleaguers Boggs for a full
herd of three-year-olds. "Which I'll never forget them eloocidations
beright onfolds on Boggs one evenin' about the mournin' an' the
howlin' of some hound-dogs that's been sendin' thrills through
Boggs. It's when some outfit of mountebanks is givin' a show called
'Uncle Tom's Cabin,' over to Huggins' Bird Cage Op'ry House, an'
these yere saddenin' canines--big, lop-y'eared hound-dogs, they be--
works in the piece.
Pages:
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269