A square table was inside. On it was a lot of bottles and glasses and a pack of cards–nothin’ more.
Ole sin-killer, too!
I spoke up: “They’s gone, boys,–but what about they land?”
“Wal,” answers one feller, “I don’t think the doc had none. ’Cause I bought the Merchants’ Exchange site offen him yesterday.”
“And I bought the Normal School block offen the parson,” says Number Two.
“And what I got from the real-estate feller last night,” adds the hotel clerk, “must ’a’ come nigh to cleanin’ him out.”
Another spell of quiet. Then––
“I wonder,” remarks the station-agent, “if that Rockafeller telegram was genuwine.”
The postmaster throwed up his hands. “We’re it!” he says. “We sole our sand fer a song, and we bought it back at a steep figger.”
“With all that money,” adds the hotel clerk, “they must ’a’ had to walk bow-laigged.”