or clean?

[Illustration: "I DON'T GENERALLY SHOOT TILL THE OTHER FELLER DRAWS."]

"I don't generally shoot till the other feller draws," explained Tom
Dosser, while each man in the room wept with emotion as they realized
they had lived to see Tom's skill displayed before their very eyes--"I
don't generally shoot till the other feller draws; but you'd better be
spry. I usually make a little allowance for age, but--"

Tom's further explanations were indefinitely delayed by an abnormal
contraction of his trachea, the same being induced by the old man's
right hand, while his left seized the unhappy Thomas by his waist-belt,
and a second later the dead shot of Blugsey's was tossed into the middle
of the floor, somewhat as a sheaf of oats is tossed by a practiced hand.

"Anybody else?" inquired the old man. "I'll back Vermont bone an' muscle
agin' the hull passel of ye, even if I _be_ a deacon.' The angel of the
Lord encampeth round about them that fear him.'"

"The angel needn't hurry hisself," said Tom Dosser, picking himself up,
one joint at a time. "Ef that's the crowd yer travelin' with, and
they've got a grip anything like yourn, I don't want nothin' to do with
'em."

Boston Ben looked excited, and roared:

"This court's adjourned _sine die_."

Then he rushed up to the newly announced deacon, caught him firmly by
the right hand, slapped him heartily between the shoulders, and
inquired, rather indignantly:

"Say, old Angelchum, why didn't you ever let folks know yer style,
instead uv trottin' 'round like a melancholy clam with his shells shut
up tight? That's what this crowd wants to know! Now yev opened down to
bed-rock, we'll git English Sam from Sonora, an' git up the tallest kind
uv a rasslin' match."

"Not unless English Sam meddles with my business, you won't," replied
the deacon, quickly. "I've got enough to do fightin' speretual foes."

"Oh," said Boston Ben, "we'll manage it so the church folks needn't
think 'twas a set-up job. We'll put Sam up to botherin' yer, and yer can
tackle him at sight. Then--"

"Excuse me, Boston," interrupted Tom Dosser, "but yer don't hit the
mark. I'm from Vermont myself, an' deacons there don't fight for the fun
of it, whatever they may do in the village _you_ hail from." Then,
turning to the old man, Tom asked: "What part uv the old State be ye
from, deacon, an' what fetched ye out?"

"From nigh Rutland," replied the deacon, "I hed a nice little place
thar, an' wuz