Squarehead of a dod-gasted Dutchy from the Farterland grunted in me eye, an' I thought the shave-tail was fer rough-housin', an' I slugged him one, just ter start 'im gwine. The gosh-dinged piker jest curled up. He jest wilted on the floor."
The Bucking Bronco, in high disgust, expectorated and then chid himself for forgetting that he was no longer on the free soil of America, where a gentleman may spit as he likes and be a gentleman for a' that and a' that.
"I tell yew, Johnnie," he continued, "he got me jingled, the lumberin' lallapaloozer! There he lay an' lay—and then some. 'Git up, yew rubberin' rube,' I ses, 'yew'll git moss on your teeth if yew lie so quiet; git up, an' deliver the goods,' I ses, 'I had more guts then yew when I was knee high to a June bug.' Did he arise an' make good? I should worry. Nope. Yew take it from Uncle, that bonehead is there yit, an' afore I could make him wise to it thet he didn't git the bulge on Uncle with thet bluff, another Squarehead an' a gibberin' Dago put up a dirty kind o' scrap over his body, gougin' and kickin' an' earbitin' an' throttlin', an' a whole bunch o' boobs jined in an' I give it up an' come 'ome." And the Bucking Bronco sat him sadly on his bed and groaned.
"Cheer up, Buck, we'll all soon be dead," replied his comrade, "don't you go getting cafard," and he looked anxiously at the angry-lugubrious face of his friend. "What's the ordre du jour for walking-out dress to-day?" he added. "Blue tunic and red trousers? Or tunic and white? Or capote, or what?"
"It was tunic an' white yesterday," replied the American, "an' I guess it is to-day too."
