I dreamp' he _throwed_ the race!"
A chorus of oaths from the bunks.
"What did you do?" inquired Stover.
"I woke up, all of a tremble, with a gun in each hand."
"I don't take no stock in dreams whatever," said some one.
"Well, I'm the last person in the world to be superstitious,"
Still Bill observed, "but I've had sim'lar visions lately."
"Maybe it's a om-en."
"What is a om-en?" Carara inquired.
"A om-en," explained Willie, "is a kind of a nut. Salted om-ens
is served at swell restaurants with the soup."
In the midst of it Joy, the cook, appeared in the doorway, and
spoke in his gentle, ingratiating tones:
"Morning, gel'mum! I see 'im again."
"Who?"
"No savvy who; stlange man! I go down to spling-house for bucket
water; see 'im lide 'way. Velly stlange!"
"I bet it's Gallagher."
"Vat you tank he vants?" queried Murphy.
"He's layin' to get a shot at our runner," declared Stover, while
Mr. Cloudy, forgetting his Indian reserve, explained in classic
English his own theory of the nocturnal visits. "Do you remember
Humpy Joe? Well, they didn't cripple him, but he lost.
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