"went on a tear" it was a long and desperate one, and its result was a foregone conclusion. The reporters for the daily press of San Francisco were sitting one morning in their special quarter in the Police Court room, taking notes of the trials and sentences of the thieves, vagrants, burglars, wife-whippers, drunkards, and all other offscourings of humanity who attend the daily levees of his honor, when Mike, who, in pursuance of his time-honored custom, had been "running all night," and was just on the debatable ground between sudden reform and delirium tremens, came in, and leaning up against the partition which separates the reporters from that of the shysters, fell fast asleep. Seeing him in that position, the writer reached over to the chair always occupied by poor old Dick R (Rattlesnake Dick, as we used to call him by way of affectionate endearment, was a special favorite with all the reporters of that day), and pulled out a little roll of curled hair from the cushion. This hair was rolled into a hard wad, about the size of a large marrowfat pea, and dropped quietly inside of Mike's shirt-collar, where it lodged without in the least disturbing his slumbers. The morning wore on and the business of the day was nearly concluded, and still Mike slept on. At last a case was called, in which Mike was interested, or supposed to be, and the bailiff in attendance shook him by the shoulder, with the emphatic adjuration, "Here Mike, wake up; your case is called!" Mike awoke with a start, and stepping out promptly in front of the Judge's desk, threw out his right arm in oratorical style, began—
