Clear es a bottle o'
gin, an' flawless es the pope! Tommy Dartmoor, ye're in luck, s' welp me
never ef ye ain't, an' that's a brilliant yer can show the polis an' not
get time fer."
Tommy Dartmoor, who owed his surname to a crown establishment within the
restraining walls of which he had once enjoyed a temporary residence,
growled out a recommendation to "stow that," and then added, "Boys,
we'll wet this. Trek to Werstein's."
Forthwith a crowd of dirty, tanned diggers turned their heads in the
direction of Gustav Werstein's American Bar, and walked toward it as
briskly as the heat and their weariness would admit of. The Israelite
saw them coming, straightened himself out of the half-doze in which
he had passed the baking afternoon, stopped down the tobacco in the
porcelain bowl of his long-stemmed pipe with stumpy forefinger, and,
twisting a cork off his corkscrew, stood in readiness.
"Name yer pizons, boys, an' get outside 'em, wishin' all good luck to
R'yal Straight; R'yal Straight bein' the name o' this yer stone given by
Thomas D. Hesquire, original diskiverer an' present perprietor.
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