"I meets up with a pretty hefty mob o' Britishers, moseyin' 'round one way an' another. Some's green an' juicy, an' that tender you'd think they didn't oughter ha' left their mammy's apron-strings. But them shorthorns don' never pan out jest how you-alls imagines. They interdooces new idees into the play. It ain't all bluff, neither, an' as they accoomilates wisdom an' absorbs the many an' variegated systems in which life is played, they frequent emerges tharfrom as hard as granite and as knowin' an' crafty as a she-grizzly.
"When I paws back in my mem'ry I rec'llects quite a corralful o' strange plays these here British shorthorns makes.
"One I minds spechul; he's no more'n a kid, his eye-teeth bein' hardly growed. It's San Antonio whar he butts in on the scenery, w'arin' dude clo'es an' lookin' that soft and innocent I'm mighty dubious 'bout his not meltin' into a cawpse 'less he pulls his freight for milder climes. But I notes a clean-strain look in his eye, kinder open an' free like'n eagle's, which same eye gives me a faint surmise as how he ain't so tender and lamblike as he appears.
"I runs agin this here shorthorn first, a-takin' a pasear in his dude clo'es. Next I meets up with him over a faro game, an' I sees he has the fever on him shore 'nuff; his eyes is a-glitterin' an' his jaw clenched like he's desp'rate. He shore loses a heap, an' I notes his war-bags a-saggin' in and in, till presently they is plumb empty an' devoid of contents entire. Then he r'ars up on his hind-laigs, gives a laugh 'most like a wolf-howl, an' vamooses.
"'Bout an hour later he swarms in on the scenery again, but he's a mighty dissolute lookin' hobo now. His dude clo'es is gone—I reckons he's done pawned 'em—an' he's a-caperin' 'round in a p'ar o' overalls, nought but squares o' variegated colours wi' patchin', an' a shirt which is 'most all ventilation. He's bar'-foot an' bar'-headed.
"Wall, this here youthful scarecrow wanders kinder thoughtful up to the kyard-sharp who deals the faro game which roped in his dinero, an' slammin' down a twenty-dollar gold-touch, allows he'll cut kyards for it.
"That 'ere kyard-sharp kinder smiles slow an' satisfied, like a wolf wi' a strayed calf or a b'ar wi' honey, an' then cold-decks him some careless an' easy.
"But the boy cinches on to his play; his eyes sparkle, an' he cuts loose some loud an' fierce:
"'You're a damned cheat!'