You can't tell." Just what the man said after that Uncle Ethan didn't follow.

His voice had a confidential purring sound as he stretched across the wagon-seat and talked on, eyes half shut.

He straightened up at last, and concluded in the tone of one who has carried his point: "So! If you didn't want to use the whole twenty-five bottles y'rself, why! sell it to your neighbors.

You can get twenty dollars out of it easy, and still have five bottles of the best family bitter that ever went into a bottle." It was the thought of this opportunity to get a buffalo-skin coat that consoled Uncle Ethan as he saw the hideous black letters appearing under the agent's lazy brush.
It was the hot side of the barn, and painting was no light work.

The agent was forced to mop his forehead with his sleeve.
"Say, hain't got a cooky or anything, and a cup o' milk handy ?" he said at the end of the first enormous word, which ran the whole length of the barn.
Uncle Ethan got him the milk and cooky, which he ate with an exaggeratedly dainty action of his fingers, seated meanwhile on the staging which Uncle Ripley had helped him to build.