I shouldn't wonder if George helped him drive 'em up the foothills.

And his casa's built too high.

Oh, thar ain't any water thar, you bet.

Ah," says Wise, with reflective admiration, "those greasers ain't the darned fools people thinks 'em.

I'll bet thar ain't one swamped out in all 'er Californy." But the appearance of "grub" cut this rhapsody short.
"I shall keep on a little farther," I say, "and try to find George." Wise stared a moment at this eccentricity until a new light dawned upon him.
"I don't think you'll save much.