Connors had passed the time by relating stale jokes to the uproarious
laughter of his extremely bored audience, who had heard the aged
efforts many times since they had first seen the light of day, and
most of whom earnestly longed for a drink. The landlord, hearing the
hilarity, had taken advantage of the opportunity offered to see a free
show. Not being able to see what the occasion was for the mirth, he
had pulled on his boots and made his way to the show with a flapjack
in the skillets which, in his haste, he had forgotten to put down. He
felt sure that he would be entertained, and he was not disappointed.
He rounded the corner and was enthusiastically welcomed by the hungry
Mr. Connors, whose ubiquitous guns coaxed from the skillet its
dyspeptic wad.
"Th' saints be praised!" ejaculated Mr. Connors as a matter of form,
not having a very clear idea of just what saints were, but he knew
what flapjacks were and greedily overcame the heroic resistance of the
one provided by chance and his own guns. As he rolled his eyes in
ecstatic content the very man Mr. Cassidy had warned him against
suddenly arose and in great haste disappeared around the corner of the
corral, from which point of vantage he vented his displeasure at the
treatment he had received by wasting six shots at the mortified Mr.
Connors.
"Steady!" sang out that gentleman as the line-up wavered.
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