"Say, Red, has you gone bughouse? I never heerd you talk like that in my life."
"See here, kid,"—and there was a firmer tone in his voice,—"we ain't foolin' now—understan'? An' in about five minnits you'll be gone. Now, I wants you to promise that ye'll ferget ev'ry darn thing I've taught you. Listenin'?"
The kid was gazing down the track.
"Listenin'?" Red cried again.
The kid turned and looked at him. "Can't I enhale cig'rettes any more? Has I got to ferget them, too?"
"Well, kid, you kin tell yer mother that I says you kin do that—but that's all. Now, 'll you promise?"
"Gosh, Red, it'll be hard work!"
"Can't help it—you got to do it. You don't wanter be like me. You wanter be somethin' dead fine—'spectable."
"Ain't you somethin' dead fine? I heerd 'Frisco Shorty say onc't you was the fliest bloke in yer line west o' Denver."