"Bust my gizzard, but yeu air a ripper!" exclaimed my tall friend. "He
air, ain't he, bully boys?"
What more they said was drowned in a terrific row which took place at
the other end of the apartment.
"Hillo!" shouted my tall friend. "Come on, stranger, if yeu want to see
our pertikelur customs of this hemisphere. Bet my boots it's Bully
Larkins and that old 'oss from Calerforney. Go it, my cockeys!" he
screamed out as he mounted on a table, "go it, old coon!" alluding to
one of the combatants; "go it! Billy's a-gaining on yeu, and if yeu
don't look out he'll riz yer har with his bowie knife, gouge yer eye,
and fetch yeu out of yer boots--he will, by----!"
Such a fearful row I never heard. All were in a state of frenzied
excitement--knives glittered in the hands of many. Whilst all this was
going on I made my way out of the apartment, and locked and bolted
myself in my own.
In half an hour my landlord came to the door, and knocked for
admission.
"It's all over, stranger," he said as he entered. "Old Calerforney
carved two of Bully Larkins' fingers off with his bowie, and Larkins
bit off half t'other's nose. I guess he ain't beautiful. They're
festive cusses here, and air always at it. Nary a day passes without a
free fight."
I need hardly say the next day I took my departure for New York, and
was off to England by the first boat. I had had quite enough of my
American friends and their notions.
I have given up sporting, as I found I could make no hand at it. I
shoot occasionally for amusement, and fish occasionally, but never lay
down the law as an authority.