“Now, that’s what I pride in him fur—his reg’lar human sense. I tell yer, fellers, he’s jist the durndest dog out! Now, ef I come home from town perfectly sober (when I’ve left him to see after the ranch), it would do your hearts good to see that dog show off what a sense of appreciation he’s got of me. Fellers, his gorgeous tail then stands aloft; he skyugles about; he runs on afore me, a-scrapin’ up the yearth with his hind feet, sendin’ the chips a-flyin’; he holds up his head and barks in a cheerful, manly tone of voice, escortin’ me forward, and feelin’[feelin’] prouder’n ef he’d holed a woodchuck!
“But let me come home full of tangle-leg, sheep-herder’s delight, and tarant’ler juice, and that is the durndest shamedest dog above ground. He jist takes one look at me and he knows it all. Down goes his tail, he lops his years, hangs his head, squats his back, and slinks away, and crawls under the barn—acturly ashamed to be seen about the primises for fear somebody’ll find out I own him!”
Just previous to the Senatorial contest which resulted in his election, the Hon. J. P. Jones had the following funny adventure in Virginia City with a man who came to hire himself out as a “fighter”:
Mr. Jones and several friends were in one of the first-class saloons, sipping their wine, smoking and chatting, when a rather strange-looking customer entered the place, and, sauntering up to the group, began the operation of “eying over” the gentlemen composing it.
He was a man of middle age and medium height, with arms disproportionately long, great, spreading hands, and knotty fingers. His angular, ungainly form was poorly and scantily clad, and he was topped out with a curious little bullet-head, set upon a very short allowance of neck. From the sides of his little, round head stood leaning out two great pulpy ears, and all that appeared on his face in the way of beard was a jet-black stubbed moustache. This seemed to have been planted a hair at a time with a pegging-awl and hammer, the latter coming down on the defenseless nose as each bristle was inserted, and so intimidating said organ that it had ever since remained crouched out of sight behind the hairy stockade. A large, livid scar described a semi-circle round one of his projecting cheek-bones, and passing down entered the corner of his mouth, giving to the feature an ugly upward hitch on that side. Wabbling his little, glittering grey eyes over the party before him, until said orbs rested upon the rotund form and rosy face of Mr. Jones, he pulled off the hirsute ten-pin ball which he would have called his head, a scrap of hat, and making an awkward bow, said:
“J. P. Jones, I believe?”
“That is my name, sir,” said Jones.
“Correct,” sententiously observed the strange visitor.
“Do you want to see me?” said Jones.
“About three minutes, and in private, if you please.”