It makes me
nervous to think of such things. I don't want to be suspicious of every
queer taste in my coffee, and to shiver if I see a little powdered white
sugar on the upper crust of my pastry. I don't want, every time I hear a
door bang, to think it is a ragged slug from an unseen gun-barrel.
If Dick V---- was _not_ killed on the Pampas, as they have always said
he was, I should never sleep easy after telling my story. For such a
fellow as he was would certainly see through all the disguises I could
cover up a real-life story with, and then----. He has learned the use of
the lasso too well for me to want to trust my neck anywhere within a rod
of him, if there were light enough for him to see, and nothing between
us, and nobody near.
And besides, there were a good many opinions handled by some of these
people I should have to talk about. Now, of course, a magazine like the
Oceanic is no place for opinions. Look out for your Mormon subscribers,
if you question the propriety of Solomon's domestic arrangements! And
if you say one word that touches the Sandemanians, be sure their whole
press will be down on you; for, as Sandemanianism is the undoubted and
absolutely true religion, it follows, of course, that it is as sore as a
scalded finger, and must be handled like a broken bone.
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