“Oh, it is de vorst sickness vot efer vos. I pe goin’ grazy! Den vot vill pecome of little Loney? Mr. Shoshone, vot is de most tangerous sickness of all?”
“I don’t know.”
“Neider do I, but I got it all right, und dot pirt is setting me mad!”
“Oh, I’ll soon fix that,” said Shoshone, drawing his pistol, which action brought a cry from Morris.
“Don’t shoot! don’t shoot! For Gott’s sake don’t make dot noise!”
“Oh, I see; you don’t feel well this morning. Why don’t you try some of the hair of the dog that bit you?”
With a gesture of distaste that spoke plainer than words, Morris refused, at which Shoshone laughed. Then Morris said innocently, but convincingly:
“Mister, I gif you mein vort, dot dog didn’t pite me—he eat me all up!”
“Well, what are you standing there suffering for? Come on into the saloon and get a snifter.”
“For Gott’s sake don’t mention it! Dot vos mein first und it shall pe mein last. I vill die first—if I live. I vos come out here to find mein daughter, Dora, vot vos stolen from me—her olt fader—und I haf dot poor little Loney, und vill you dot I pecome a drinker like dot?”