'S like feedin' a stray dog; yuh won't never git rid of 'em now.

They'll be hangin' around under yer feet--" "At that, I might have use for them," Luck retorted unmoved.

"They're fine types." "Types!" old Applehead exploded indignantly.

"Types! They're sneak-thieves and cutthroats 't I wouldn't trust fur's I could throw a bull by the tail.

That's what they be.