"You wouldn't
play poker with _me_, would you? Of course not. I might get your
money. In fact, I think I should, myself. But you would turn over ten
fine large bones to a paralytic who made pencil sketches of a scene in
the Alps and put the sign of the price on 'em--one sawbuck, or ten
plunks? There is the sawbuck," says Aggy, tappin' his map. "But where
are the plunks? Go to! There are no plunks. We kick the dust of
Dog-town from our hind legs. Flee cheerily, one-time neighbours, to
where a red cross fifty miles in length lies exposed to the sunlight,
and then dig; dig for wealth beyond the dreams of avarice; dream of
scow-loads of gold floating on a canal of champagne. Don't forget to
dig, because that will give you a muscle like a Government mule. And
here's where we dig--out. Ta-ta, fellow-citizens, I never expected to
get you so foul!"
"I think you was working with that feller," says one man, excited.
"Dream on--dream on," says Ag, "but don't make any motions in your
sleep. I've heard that wakin' up somnambulists with a .44 Colt's is
bad for their nervous systems." The lad was quiet. "Gentlemen," says
Aggy, "if you have kicks, prepare to shed them now."
"No tickee--no kickee," says the cow-puncher. "But kindly don't bunch
me with these Foundered Dogs," pointing to the rest.
"Certainly not," says Ag. "Come with us, friend?"
"I sure ought not to," says the puncher, scratchin' his head.
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