Also his legs was bowed.
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.