Mister Boston stopped byside the door. The sheriff goes on––
“Aw, Pat fer his shirt, he begged hard and plead,
But, ‘No tickee, no washee’, the Chinaman said.
Now Paddy’s in jail, and the Chinaman’s dead!
How’s that?”
“That’s tough!”
It brung him. He looked in, kinda edged through the door, took a bench, and surveyed them shaps, and them guns till his eyes plumb protruded. “Rippin’!” I heerd him say.
“‘That's tough,’” repeats Monkey Mike, winkin’ to the boys. “Wal, I should remark it was!–to go t’ jail just fer pluggin’ a Chink. Irish must ’a’ felt like two-bits.”
Boston lent over towards me. “What’s two bits?” he ast.
“What’s two bits,” says Rawson. “Don’t you know? Wal, one bit is what you can take outen the other feller’s hide at one mouthful. Two bits, a-course, is two of ’em.”