Even our consciences had gone back on
us--they didn't have nothing to work on. The town looked like it had
been deserted and then found by a party of citizens worse off than the
first.
The only respectable thing in the hull darn shack-heap was Aggy's black
long-tailed coat and black-brimmed hat. And they made the rest of the
place look so miserable that Ag wouldn't have wore 'em if he'd had
another hat and a shirt. We was a pair of twin twisters that had
busted our proud and graceful forms on a scrap-iron heap.
I s'pose it was the turible depression of bein' stuck in such a hole,
or some sudden weakenin' of the brain; but anyhow, in that same town of
Lost Dog, Agamemnon G. Jones and Hy Smith ran hollerin' into a faint
away game.
We paid ten dollars for a map showin' the location of the Lost Injun
mine, from a paralytic partially roomin' at the Inter-Cosmopolitan
Hotel. The Inter-Cosmopolitan had got pretty near finished, when the
boom exploded with a loud sigh.
One-half the roof was missin', and the clapboardin' didn't come quite
to the top, but that paralytic took it good-natured, sayin' that as he
wasn't more'n half a man, half a hotel was plenty good enough for him.
But ah! he allus wound up, if he could get the proper motion in his
hind legs, he'd be up and find his Lost Injun mine, and after that no
dull care for him.
I ain't goin' to describe that gentleman any more.
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