It's--it's--it's heredity.
How would you like to get into bed at two in the morning and jam your feet down into a slimy mess like that?
Oh, no.

It's not so funny then.
And you mark my words, Mr.Harran Derrick," he continued, as he climbed into the buggy, shaking the whip toward Harran, "this business we talked over to-night--I'm OUT of it.

It's yellow.

It's too CURSED dishonest." He cut the horse across the back with the whip and drove out into the pelting rain.

In a few seconds the sound of his buggy wheels was lost in the muffled roar of the downpour.
Harran and Presley closed the barn and returned to the house, sheltering themselves under a tarpaulin carriage cover.