for
weepons by the preacher before ever said divine consents to turn his
game at all. Which I'm free to say, however, I never lends no
creedence to them yarns.

"The Turner person, now he's established as a married gent an' a
cit'zen in full standin', gives himse'f horn an' hide to business that
a-way. He's as prompt about openin' his coffin emporium as ever is
Black Jack in throwin' wide the portals of the Red Light. Once thar,
he stays ontil the evenin' lamps is lit, layin' for a corpse to use
his new hearse on.

"Also, the Turner person has hopes: an' equally also he ain't without
foundations wharon to build. That's an uncle of Armstrong who has come
totterin' into camp, as he says himse'f, to die. Likewise, it's the
onbiased view of every gent in the outfit that this reelative of
Armstrong possesses reasons. He's a walkin' wreck. Peets concedes that
he's got every malady ever heard of, besides sev'ral as to which
science is plumb in the dark.

"Nacherally, not alone the Turner person, but the public at large,
figgers that this yere uncle'll shore furnish employment for the
hearse, an' at no distant day. But it looks like that onmitigated
invalid is out to test our patience. Mornin' after mornin' he comes
scufflin' into the Red Light on two canes to get his matootinal
nosepaint, an' this he keeps up ontil it begins to look like malice.
Ree'lizin', too, the pecooliar int'rest we-all is bound to take in him
onder the circumstances, he puts on airs, an' goes by us when he meets
us as coldly haughty as a paycar by a tramp. Or, ag'in, he's prone to
grin at us plenty peevish an' malev'lent, an' this he does partic'lar
if the Turner person's hoverin' round.

"'Which I shore deespises to keep you boys waitin',' he'd say, with a
cacklin', aggravatin' laugh; 'but the way I feels it'd be prematoore
to go greasin' up the hubs of that hearse.'

"Sech taunts he flings forth constant, ontil he comes mighty near
drivin' Boggs frantic.

"'It seems,' says Boggs, 'like simply livin' ain't good enough for
that old hoss thief. To be wholly happy he's obleeged to make his stay
on earth a source of mis'ry to other folks. Which he ought to've been
in his tomb ten years ago. Every day he draws his breath is so much
velvet; an', instead of bein' thankful, all he thinks of is makin'
mean reemarks an' sayin' bitin' things. He'll keep on till some
over-provoked sport bends a six-shooter on his insultin' head.'

"Weeks of waitin' goes b