"You want a town," says he. "Well,"
p'inting with the butt of his whip, "eighteen miles over yonder you'll
find your place, if you're looking to make the sidewalks stand
perpendicular; and twenty mile over there, if you want to find some of
the nicest people outdoors. Pretty girls there, bet cher life. Chip
Jackson filled me full of lead two months ago to get his name
up--reg'lar kid trick; wanted to get a rep as the man that put out Jack
Hunter; he didn't put me out no more'n you see at present, but the folk
over at Cactus used me white. Nussed me. Gee! A dream, gents, a
dream! Real girls, with clothes that whispers like wind in the grass,
'Here I come! Here I come!'
"I got the prettiest, slimmest, black-eyed one marked down for me. I
wanted her right off, but she said she couldn't consider it, and cried
a little; so I cuddled her up and ca'med her down and said I'd do the
considerin'. That's a great place--you fellers have seen enough rough
house, why don't you shuck down that way?"
"I play her wide open," says Aggy, "from pretty little kittens in white
to chawin' the ear off my fellow-man; but, to speak honest and
straightforward, we ain't got the sinews of war to start a campaign in
such a town, as I'd like to."
"Broke!" hoots Hunter. "Well, that don't go a minute! Here!" says he,
"glue your optics to that." He chucked out a specimen peppered with
yaller.
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