Thet sort o' thing don't make no saint out'r eny kin'd man, I reckon.

What sort'r job is it ?" He eyed me cautiously, as though not altogether devoid of suspicion.
"Yer don't somehow look just the same sort o' chap, with them ther' whiskers shaved off," he acknowledged soberly.

"Yer a hell sight better lookin' then I thought yer wus, an' a damn sight younger.

Whar wus it yer cum frum ?" "Frum Saint Louee, on the boat, if thet's what yer drivin' at." "Tain't what I'm drivin' at.

Whar else did yer cum frum afore then?
Yer ain't got no bum's face." "Oh, I see; well, I can't help that, kin I?
I wus raised down in Mississip', an' run away when I wus fourteen.