"If I wanted money," continued Diogenes, "I could have made fifty dollars a day for the last two months. But I ask no favors of the world. Some of 'em wants to stay here whether I will or no; I rather think I'm too many for any of that sort—eh, Bull, what d'ye say?" Bull growled, with a bloodthirsty meaning. "Too many altogether, gents—me and Bull."
There was a sturdy independence about this fellow, and a scorn for filthy lucre that rather astonished me as a citizen of a money-loving state.
"Well, if you can't let us stay all night, perhaps you can get us up a snack of dinner?"
"Snack of dinner?"—and here there was a guttural chuckle that boded failure again—"I tell you this ain't a tavern; and if it was, my cook's gone out to take a airing."
"But have you nothing in the house to eat?"
"Oh yes, there's a bunch of foxskins. If you'd like some of 'em cooked, I'll bile 'em for you."
This man's disposition had evidently been soured in early life. I think he must have been crossed in love. His style had the merit of being terse, but his manner was sarcastic to the verge of impoliteness.
"Well, I suppose we can warm ourselves at the fire?"
"If you can," quoth Diogenes, "you can do more than I can;" and here he hauled his blanket over his shoulders, and fell back on the empty potato sacks as if there was no more to be said on that or any other subject.
The bull-dog seemed to be of the same way of thinking, and quietly laid down by his master; still, however, keeping his eye on us, as suspicious characters.