His hands trembled badly, and he always smelled of whiskey. Cross where the deer cross and you'll be all right, he said. It's a nervous disease, he said. Dish don't allow low types like us the right even to look at the girl, Jasper remarked.
They sat down in the shade and promptly ate the whole sack. The wind had become fitful, gusting and then dying, and instead of beating steadily at his back, the sand was fitful too, swirling around him one moment and gone the next. His enthusiasm soon caused the other hands to be jealous, for they had accomplished nothing except a drunk in Ogallala, and had missed the nice picnic and the girls. If he had cared that much he would have shot Gus, friend or no friend.
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