He gets a drink at the bar, and stands back and yells:
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!"
Now, this was none of my town, so I just stepped back of the end
of the bar quick where I wouldn't stop no lead. The shootin'
didn't begin.
"Probably Dutchy didn't take no note of what the locoed little
dogie DID say," thinks I to myself.
The Irishman bellied up to the bar again, and pounded on it with
his fist.
"Look here!" he yells. "Listen to what I'm tellin' ye! God
bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle! Do ye hear me?"
"Sure, I hear ye," says Dutchy, and goes on swabbin' his bar with
a towel.
At that my soul just grew sick. I asked the man next to me why
Dutchy didn't kill the little fellow.
"Kill him! " says this man. "What for?"
"For insultin' of him, of course."
"Oh, he's drunk," says the man, as if that explained anythin'.
That settled it with me. I left that place, and went home,and it
wasn't more than four o'clock, neither. No, I don't call four
o'clock late. It may be a little late for night before last, but
it's just the shank of the evenin' for to-night.
Well, it took me six weeks and two days to go broke.
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