Don't mind 'em.

Keep cool." "Yes, keep cool, Kunnel; it's only our solicitude for your welfare," chipped in Foster.

Then, addressing the crowd in a general sort of way, he speculated: "Curious how a man, a plain American citizen like Colonel Peavy, wins a place in the innermost affections of a whole people." "That's so!" murmured the rest.
"He can't grow bald without deep sympathy from his fellow-citizens.

It amounts to a public calamity." The old Colonel glared in speechless wrath.
"Say! gents," pleaded Gordon, "let up on the old man for the present.
He's going to need all of himself if he gets out o' the trap he's in now." He waved, his fat hand over the Colonel's head, and smiled blandly at the crowd hugging the stove.
"My head may be bald," grated the old man with a death's-head grin, indescribably ferocious, "but it's got brains enough in it to skunk any man in this crowd three games out o' five." "The ol' man rather gits the laugh on y' there, gents," called Robie from the other side of the counter.

"I hain't seen the old skeesix play better'n he did last night, in years." "Not since his return from Canada, after the war, I reckon," said Amos, from the kerosene barrel.
"Hold on, Amos," put in the Judge warningly, "that's outlawed.