THE TALE OF BRAZOS DICK
He was full of everything, and yet couldn't speak. I could see that. He needed a little oil; just a cocktail, or something equivalent, to set him free. But I let him hold his tongue. We were near the Rock. Presently we reached it. He took his grip-sack and got out. The depôt was dark enough,—not a soul spotted him in his bowler. We walked up town together.
"Painted Rock," said Brazos, "Painted Rock, a little one-hoss collection of shanties in a perairie! London, oh, my!"
We walked into the American House and found the usual gang there, Pillsbury and Gedge, and Gillett the City Marshal, taking a drink.
"What ho!" said Pillsbury, "here's our pilgrim from Noo Orl'ans kem back again! What did I say, boys? I told you that Noo Orl'ans would ketch holt of young Dick, if he got so far. Did you, Brazos?"
"I did, Mr. Pillsbury," said Brazos calmly.
"Like it? Was the gals daisies?" asked Gillett.
"I never seen one of 'em," replied Brazos.
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