"'Injuns is too ignorant to have what you-all calls "luck,"' says Dan. 'That gent who's to be affected either up or down by "luck" has got to have some mental cap'bilities. An' as Injuns don't answer sech deescriptions, they ain't no more open to "luck" than to enlight'ment. "Luck" an' Injuns when took together, is preepost'rous! It's like talkin' of a sycamore tree havin' luck. Gents, it ain't in the deck!' An' tharupon Dan seals his views by demandin' of Black Jack the bottle with glasses all 'round.
"'When it comes to that, Boggs,' says Colonel Sterett, as he does Dan honour in four fingers of Valley Tan, 'an' talkin' of luck, I'm yere to offer odds that the most poignant hard-luck story on the list is the story of Injuns as a race. An' I won't back-track their game none further than Columbus at that. The savages may have found life a summer's dream prior to the arrival of that Eytalian mariner an' the ornery Spainiards he surrounds himse'f with. But from the looks of the tabs, the deal since then has gone ag'inst 'em. The Injuns don't win once. White folks, that a-way, is of themse'fs bad luck incarnate to Injuns. The savage never so much as touches 'em or listens to 'em or imitates 'em, but he rots down right thar. Which the pale-face shorely kills said Injuns on the nest! as my old grand-dad used to say.'
"'When I recalls the finish of Hardrobe,' I remarks, sort o' cuttin' into the argyment, the same bein' free an' open to all, 'an' I might add by way of a gratootity in lines of proof, the finish of his boy, Bloojacket, I inclines to string my chips with Colonel Sterett.'
"'Give us the details concernin' this Hardrobe,' says Doc Peets. 'For myse'f, I'm prone an' eager to add to my information touchin' Injuns at every openin'.'
"As Enright an' the rest makes expression sim'lar, I proceeds to onbuckle. I don't claim much for the tale neither. Still, I wouldn't copper it none for it's the trooth, an' the trooth should allers be played 'open' every time. I'll tell you-all this Hardrobe story as I onfolds it to them."
It was here my friend began looking about with a vaguely anxious eye. I saw his need and pressed the button.
"I was aimin' to summon my black boy, Tom," he said.
When a moment later his favourite decanter appeared in the hands of one of the bar-boys of the hostelry, who placed it on a little table at his elbow and withdrew, the necessity for "Tom" seemed to disappear, and recurring to Hardrobe, he went on.
"Hardrobe is a Injun—a Osage buck an' belongs to the war clan of his tribe. He's been eddicated East an' can read in books, an' pow-wows American mighty near as flooent as I does myse'f. An' on that last p'int I'll take a chance that I ain't tongue-tied neither.
"Which this yere is a long time ago. Them is days when I'm young an' lithe an' strong. I can heft a pony an' I'm six foot two in my moccasins. No, I ain't so tall by three inches now; old age shortens a gent up a whole lot.