“It’s the worst blizzard we ever had,” remarked Wade Ruggles, after one of these violent outbursts; “God pity any one that’s abroad to-night.”
“It reminds me of that zephyr last winter,” observed Vose Adams, “when I was bringing your freight, Max, from Sacramento.”
“I remember,” nodded the landlord; “you started with two kegs and got here with about half a one; the leakage was tremenjus on that trip.”
“True; the blizzards is always rough on Mountain Dew, and sorter makes it shrink,” replied the unblushing Vose.
“Can’t you stop the casks leaking so much,” inquired 16 Felix Brush, who had been a parson in Missouri, and claimed that he had never been “unfrocked.”
The landlord solemnly swayed his head.
“Not as long as Vose has charge of the freight–––”
At that instant a dull but resounding thump was heard on the roof overhead. It shook every log in the structure, checked speech and caused each man to look wonderingly at his neighbor.
“The mountain has fell on us!” exclaimed Ike Hoe in a husky whisper.
“If it was the mountain,” said Budge Isham, slightly raising his voice, as the courage of the party came back; “none of us would be able to tell of it.”