The man, who would have been handsome had it not been for the marks of dissipation on his face, came on, saying loudly:
“I’m the hungry wolf of the plains, and this is my night to howl—ee—you! I’m the rip-snortin’ sure-shot from Dead Man’s Gulch!”
“I gif you my vort, you got in de wrong place. Dere’s a shootin’-gallery on de corner. Two shoots for a cent.”
“Ee—zip! Ee—zip! You’re a shoemaker, ain’t you?”
“I am if I live. Vat you vant, Mister? Dake de place. I don’t vant it. De rent is too high, anyvay, und I look for anoder place—you can haf it.”
“I don’t want your place. I’m lookin’ for the coyote who deserted my sister.”
“Coyotes? I don’t keep ’em. Go down to Somolus Levinsky’s. He’s got his life insured.”
“My name is ‘Cactus Bill,’ and I’m all over ‘stickers,’ and I want a shoemaker to peg ’em in.”
“Dot’s a good fellow,” pleaded Morris; “go on to de next place. I got de locomotor-attacks me, und I can’t use de hammer.”
“Well, we’ll let it go at that. This Bowery booze is chain-lightning. I can drink a gallon of our Western booze, but this Bowery fire is burnin’ me up. I’m a stranger in a strange land. I’m a poor lost yearlin’ and I haven’t got a brand. I’m a ring-tailed broncho an’ I’m runnin’ away. Clear the range, pardner, for it’s my time to buck.”