Look at that letter! A college perfessor couldn't uh throwed together no better letter than that.
And that there 'Thanking you in advance'-- a feller _can't_ throw a man down when he writes that way.

You ask anybody." Casey's tone was one of reminiscent injury, as if J.Paul Smith had indeed taken a mean advantage of him.
One day Casey reached the limit of his endurance,--or perhaps of the endurance of Patmos.

There were not enough male residents to form a mob strong enough to lynch Casey, but there was one woman who had lost a sofa pillow and two lace curtains; Casey did not say much about her, but I gathered that he would as soon be lynched as remonstrated with again by that woman.

"Sufferin' Sunday! I'd shore hate to be her husband.

You ask anybody!" sighed Casey when he was telling me.
Casey moralized a little.