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“To hell with pups!” was Hootchinoo Bill’s reply. 

At any rate, this was the valuation men of ordinary clay put upon him, and there was nothing extraordinary about the composition of Hootchinoo Bill and Kink Mitchell.

We’re about done,” Hootchinoo Bill answered, with an attempted heartiness in his funereal tones that was ghastly. 

“Kind of looks like Gabriel’s tooted his little horn, and you an’ me has turned up missing,” remarked Hootchinoo Bill.

“I’m just dyin’ for a drink,” Hootchinoo Bill said and unconsciously his voice sank to a hoarse whisper.