Time and time again have we seen the unwary
stranger stand amazed and bewildered between our own indifference
and the sudden termination of a promising anecdote, through his own
unlucky interference. So we said nothing. "The Judge"--another
instance of arbitrary nomenclature--pretended to sleep. Jack began
to twist a cigarrito. Thornton bit off the ends of pine needles
reflectively.
"Yes, sir," continued the Doctor, coolly resting the back of his
head on the palms of his hands, "it WAS rather curious. All except
the murder. THAT'S what gets me, for the murder had no new points,
no fancy touches, no sentiment, no mystery. Was just one of the
old style, 'sub-head' paragraphs. Old-fashioned miner scrubs along
on hardtack and beans, and saves up a little money to go home and
see relations. Old-fashioned assassin sharpens up knife, old
style; loads old flint-lock, brass-mounted pistol; walks in on old-
fashioned miner one dark night, sends him home to his relations
away back to several generations, and walks off with the swag.
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