“That fat four-flusher!” yelps the old man. “He says that Telescope might ’a’ done it. Of course this Ames feller don’t fit the description, but he might at least—aw——”
“I’m going down to see Telescope,” announces Muley.
“He lies down there in durance vile
Behind the bolts and locks,
With prison staring in his face
’Cause we can’t find that box.
That held a little bunch of gold,
Which was labeled dynamite.
Will we let our pal wear striped clothes?”
“Not by a gol-danged sight!” I finishes, being somewhat of a poet myself.