He wabbled up to Joe and told him so to his face, repeating the statement many times and in many forms.

He declaimed it all the way up the path to the dugout, and when they were standing outside.

Beyond all else, Casey was anxious that Joe should feel perfectly certain that he, Casey Ryan, knew what he was doing, knew what he was saying, and that his head was and always had been perr-rf'c'ly level-l-l.
"Jus' t' prove-it--I c'n kill that jack-over-there--without-no-gun!" Casey bragged bubblingly, running his words together as if they were being poured in muddy liquid from his mouth.

"B'lieve it?
Think-I-can't ?" The three turned circumspectly and stared solemnly at a gray burro with a crippled front leg that had limped to the dump heap within easy throwing distance from the cabin door.

Hobbling on three legs it went nosing painfully amongst a litter of tin cans and bent paper cartons, hunting garbage.