He was the wisest of the bunch on the cattle business.

So I stowed away my consolation, and made out to forget comparing Colorado with God's country.
About three times a week this Irishman I told you of--name O'Toole--comes bulgin' in.

When he was sober he talked minin' high, wide, and handsome.

When he was drunk he pounded both fists on the bar and yelled for action, tryin' to get Dutchy on the peck.
"God bless the Irish and let the Dutch rustle!" he yells about six times.

"Say, do you hear ?" "Sure," says Dutchy, calm as a milk cow, "sure, I hears ye!" I was plumb sorry for O'Toole.