“And,” says that college feller from the Lazy X, “go fer the cheek allus–the best eatin’.” (He was smart, all right.)
“Not a Chinaman’s cheek–too tough,” says the sheriff.
Boston begun to kinda talk to hisself. “Horrible!” he says. “Shy Locks, by Heaven!” Then to me again, speakin’ low and pointin’ at the sheriff, “Mister Lloyd, what kind of a fambly did that man come from?”
“Don’t know a hull lot about him,” I answers, “but his mother was a squaw, and his father was found on a doorstep.”
“A squaw,” he says. “That accounts fer it.” And he begun to watch the sheriff clost.
“Gents, what you want fer you’ supper?” ast the Arnaz boy, comin’ our direction.
“I feel awful caved in,” answers Buckshot. “I’ll take a dozen aigs.”
“How’ll you have ’em?”
“Boil ’em hard, so’s I can hole ’em in my fingers. And say, cool ’em off ’fore you dish ’em up. I got blistered bad the last time I et aigs.”
“Rawson, what’ll you have?”