“They was brought in on a waiter, about the size of my bullet-pouch. I empties them into my hat, for good cigars ain't to be picked up on the prairie every day, but looking at the old man, I saw something was wrong. To be polite, I ought to have taken but one.
“‘I beg pardon,’ says I, scratching my scalp, ‘this hoss didn't think —he's been so long in the mountains he's forgot civilized doings,’ and I shoved the hat to him.
“‘Never mind,’ says he, waving his hand and smiling faintly, ‘get others,’ speaking to the boy alongside of him.
“The old gentleman took one and touched his finger to the end of my cigar—it smoked as if fire had been sot to it.
“‘Waugh! the devil!’ screams I, darting back.
“‘The same!’ chimed in he, biting off the little end of his, and bowing, and spitting it out, ‘the same, sir.’
“‘The same! what?’
“‘Why—the devil.’
“‘H——l! this ain't the hollow tree for this coon—I'll be making medicine,’ so I offers my cigar to the sky and to the earth, like an Injun.
“‘You must not do that here—out upon such superstition,’ says he, sharp-like.