You want to blow out, man,
and trim up, get your packing set out and carry less juice. You're worse
than one of them slippin', dancin', three-legged, no-good Grants. The
next time I catch you at high-tide, I'll scrap you, that's what I'll do,
fire you into the scrap-pile. Why can't you use some judgment in your
runnin'? Why can't you say, 'Why, here's the town of Whisky, I'm going
to stop here and oil around,' sail right into town, put the air on
steady and fine, bring her right down to the proper gait, throw her into
full release, so as to just stop right, shut off your squirt, drop a
little oil on the worst points, ring your bell and sail on.
"But you, you come into town forty miles an hour, jam on the emergency
and while the passengers pick 'emselves out of the ends of the cars, you
go into the supply house and leave the injector on, and then, when you
do move, you're too full to go without opening your cylinder cocks and
givin' yourself dead away.
"Now, I'm goin' to Californ', next month, and if you get so as you can
tell when you've got enough liquor without waiting for it to break your
injectors, I'll ask the old man to let you finger the plug on Old Baldy
whilst I'm gone.
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