"Yah. Dis is a ghost haus, filled mit ghostesses."
"Don't you go making any monkey talks at me. There ain't no sich things as ghosts. That'll do fer ter frighten kids with, but not fer me."
"Den who tooken our hats, und who your golden locks pulled?"
"That's so. Who took them? Tell me, who put all thet dope about this bein' a haunted house in ther shell what yer calls yer head?"
"Bill Simms, der cow-puncher vot we picked up on der drive, informationed me about it. He says a man was kilt in dis shack, und dot he valks aroundt mit it ven der night cooms."
"That Bill Simms is ther worst liar in forty States. He tried ter fill me with wild dreams about a feller what rides ther line on this yere ranch what can stand havin' ther contents o' a six-shooter pumped inter him, an' it don't feaze him none."
"Yah. Dot's der ghostes vot runs dis shack. I don'd vant ter stay here, Pud. Please let us camp out in der snow."
"Why, yer doodle, can't ther ghost come out yere jest ez easy ez he kin' go inter ther house—that is, if he's a sure-enough ghost?"
"Yah, I guess he can. Vat vill ve didding?"
"I don't care what you do, but I'm goin' inter ther shack ter start up ther fire an' get warm. I don't care what you do, but I'm 'most froze."