'
"It's about an hour later, an' Billy, who's filed away a quart of
fire-water in his interior by now, is vibratin' between the Red
Light an' the dance-hall, growin' drunk an' dejected even up. It's
then he sees 'Doby headin' up the street. 'Doby hears of his son
Willyum's wild play from his wife, an' it makes him hot that a-way.
But he ain't no notion of blamin' Billy; none whatever.
"However, 'Doby don't have entire charge of the round-up, an' he has
to figger with Billy right along.
"'Doby,' shouts Billy, as he notes his pard approachin', while he
balances himse'f in his moccasins a heap difficult, ''Doby, your
infant Willyum is a eediot. Which if I was the parent of a fool
papoose like Willyum, I'd shorely drop him down a shaft a whole lot
an' fill up the shaft. He won't assay two ounces of sense to the
ton, Willyum won't; an' he ain't worth powder an' fuse to work him.
Actooally, that pore imbecile baby Willyum, don't know his own
father.'
"Which the rage of 'Doby is beyond bounds complete. For about half a
minute him an' Billy froths an' cusses each other out scand'lous,
an' then comes the guns. The artillery is a case of s'prise, the
most experienced gent in Wolfville not loekin' for no gun-play
between folks who's been pards an' blanket-mates for years.
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