For the spirit of this and a more cultivated poetry
of expression, I beg to refer the temperate reader to the 3d chapter of
Job.
The passengers knew Bill, and sat, conservative, patient, and expectant.
As yet the cause of the catastrophe was not known. At last Thatcher's
voice came from the box seat:
"What's up, Bill?"
"Not a blank lynch pin in the whole blank coach," was the answer.
There was a dead silence. Yuba Bill executed a wild war dance of
helpless rage.
"Blank the blank ENCHANTED thing to blank!"
(I beg here to refer the fastidious and cultivated reader to the only
adjective I have dared transcribe of this actual oath which I once had
the honor of hearing. He will I trust not fail to recognize the old
classic daemon in this wild western objurgation.)
"Who did it?" asked Thatcher.
Yuba Bill did not reply, but dashed up again to the box, unlocked the
"boot," and screamed out:
"The man that stole your portmantle,--Wiles!"
Thatcher laughed:
"Don't worry about that, Bill.
Pages:
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155
156