“Ah, beg pawdon, sir, what did you say?” stammered the dude.
“W’y I s’posed you could understan’ th’ English langwidge,” replied the miner, “but seein’ ez how ye don’t, I’ll translate her to ye. I asked ye ter give me a pull at yer whisky bottle.”
“Ah, really,” said the innocent, “I’d be chawmed, you know, doncher know, but I don’t carry the article. In fact, sir, I nevah drink.”
“Ye don’t say so? Well, I want ter know!” answered the miner. “Now, see hyar, sonny, seein’ ez how you aint got no whisky, jest gimme a chaw uv terbacker an’ we’ll call it squar’.”
“I—aw—I’m sorry to say that I don’t use tobacco, sir.”
“Sho! g’long, young feller! Is—that—so? How the h—l d’ye keep a goin’? Whut d’ye do fer excitement—p’raps ye plays poker, eh?” said the stalwart son of the pick.
“Oh no!” exclaimed the tenderfoot in dismay, “I nevah play cards!”
“Ye don’t tell me!” replied the miner. “Well, well, well! By the way, young feller; be keerful not ter lose ’em—ye mout need ’em ter git home with.”
“Need what, sir?” asked the victim.
“Yer wings!”—and the miners broke out in a huge guffaw that bade fair to dislocate a wheel of the stage, and impelled the driver to look anxiously and inquiringly at his passengers.