"Sir, they was a-dredgin' up the farms I was sellin', an' the suckers
heard of it an' squealed somethin' fierce, an' I had to hustle! Yes, sir,
I had to git up an' mosey cross-lots. And what with the Federal Gov'ment
chasin' me one way an' them rubes an' the sheriff of Pickalocka County
racin' me t'other, I got lost for fair--yes, sir."
He smiled reminiscently, produced from his pockets the cold and offensive
remains of a partly consumed cigar, and examined it critically. Then he
requested a match.
"I shall now pass over lightly or in subdood silence the painful events
of my flight," he remarked, waving his cigar and expelling a long squirt
of smoke from his unshaven lips. "Surfice it to say that I got everythin'
that was comin' to me, an' then some, what with snakes and murskeeters,
an' briers an' mud, an' hunger an' thirst an' heat. Wasn't there a wop
named Pizarro or somethin' what got lost down in Florida? Well, he's got
nothin' on me. I never want to see the dam' state again. But I'll go back
if _you_ say so!"
His small rat eyes rested musingly upon the river; he sucked thoughtfully
at his cigar, hooked one soiled thumb into the armhole of his fancy vest
and crossed his legs.
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