but he was game to the last, and no rule of politeness bade him to hurry up with his dying; so he took his time for it, and showed them, unmistakably, by his looks that he regarded their presence as—to some extent—ill-timed and indelicate, and partaking of the character of undue familiarity.
They were engaged in this nice little game of "freeze out," as we left the station and passed out of sight. But who won? Did the zapilotes and death beat the horse at last? or did he starve them all while they waited? or are they still waiting and watching, he living and hoping, and the game bound to go on to the end of time? Look upon this picture, and then on that, and tell me what are the sufferings of common humanity to mine!
Reader: I have told you the secret of my blighted life. You will now know why my forehead is prematurely wrinkled, my hair turned grey before my time, and a tendency to grow hump-shouldered is developing in my frame, when you meet me on Broadway or Montgomery street. A blighted being, harassed with doubts which may never be solved, I go forth from the land where Cortez fought and conquered, and Montezuma died.
Let the riddle of the Sphynx go unread, the story of the Lost Tribes untold, the problem of the squaring of the circle unsolved; they are but as vanity and vexation of spirit to me; but would you save my grey hairs from going down in sorrow to the grave, skip all the rest, and come down to the ranchero and the pig, the horse and the zapilotes,—tell me who whipped, and oh, tell me quickly!
