"Most all the old quotations need fixing," said Joyce in tones
forbidding dispute. "For instance, the guy that alluded to
marriages germinating in heaven certainly got off on the wrong
foot. He meant pardnerships. The same works ain't got capacity for
both, no more'n you can build a split-second stop-watch in a stone
quarry. No, sir! A true pardnership is the sanctifiedest relation
that grows, is, and has its beans, while any two folks of opposite
sect can marry and peg the game out some way. Of course, all
pardnerships ain't divine. To every one that's heaven borned
there's a thousand made in -. There goes them cussed dogs again!"
He dove abruptly at the tent flap, disappearing like a palmed coin,
while our canvas structure reeled drun-kenly at his impact. The
sounds of strife without rose shrilly into blended agony, and the
yelps of Keno melted away down the gulch in a rapid and rabid
diminuendo.
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