“How’d you say he got shot?” “He had a dream,” I says, “and it shot him.” “Singular dream,” he says. — Mark Twain

All kings is mostly rapscallions, as fur as I can make out.

There warn't no color in his face, where his face showed; it was white; not like another man's white, but a white to make a body sick, a white to make a body's flesh crawl—a tree-toad white, a fish-belly white.

The average man don’t like trouble and danger.