Divils me own, he's got 'em in his face." "He's got in his face what don't belong here and what you don't know much about--never having kept company with that sort," rejoined Sibley.
"The way he lives and talks--'No, thank you, I don't care for any thing,' says he, when you're standin' at the door of a friendly saloon, which is established by law to bespeak peace and goodwill towards men, and you ask him pleasant to step inside.

He don't seem to have a single vice.

Haven't we tried him?
There was Belle Bingley, all frizzy hair and a kicker; we put her on to him.

But he give her ten dollars to buy a hat on condition she behaved like a lady in the future--smilin' at her, the divil! And Belle, with temper like dinnemite, took it kneelin' as it were, and smiled back at him--her! Drink, women--nothin' seems to have a hold on him.

What's his vice?
Sure, then, that's what I say, what's his vice?
He's got to have one; any man as is a man has to have one vice." "Bosh! Look at me," rejoined Sibley.