Then a general whoop-la! for
a week--Seattle or 'Frisco, I don't care a rap which, and then--"
"Out of money and after a job."
"Not on your family tree!" Bishop roared. "Cache my sack before I go
on the tear, sure pop, and then, afterwards, Southern California.
Many's the day I've had my eye on a peach of a fruit farm down
there--forty thousand'll buy it. No more workin' for grub-stakes and
the like. Figured it out long; ago,--hired men to work the ranch, a
manager to run it, and me ownin' the game and livin' off the
percentage. A stable with always a couple of bronchos handy; handy to
slap the packs and saddles on and be off and away whenever the fever
for chasin' pockets came over me. Great pocket country down there, to
the east and along the desert."
"And no house on the ranch?"
"Cert! With sweet peas growin' up the sides, and in back a patch for
vegetables--string-beans and spinach and radishes, cucumbers and
'sparagrass, turnips, carrots, cabbage, and such. And a woman inside
to draw me back when I get to runnin' loco after the pockets. Say, you
know all about minin'. Did you ever go snoozin' round after pockets?
No? Then just steer clear. They're worse than whiskey, horses, or
cards. Women, when they come afterwards, ain't in it. Whenever you
get a hankerin' after pockets, go right off and get married.
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