Tom took it, looked at it, and screamed:
“My wife!”
He threw himself on the floor, and cried as only a big-hearted man can cry.
The deacon gazed wildly about, and gasped:
“What’s his name?—tell me quick!”
“Tom Dosser!” answered a dozen or more.
“That’s him! Bless the Lord!” cried the deacon, and finding a seat, dropped into it, and buried his face in his hands.
For several moments there was a magnificent attempt at silence, but it utterly failed. The boys saw that the deacon and Tom were working a very large claim, and to the best of their ability they assisted.
Stumpy Flukes, under the friendly shelter of the bar, was able to fully express his feelings through his eyelids, but the remainder of the party, by taking turns at staring out the windows, and contemplating the bottles behind the bar, managed to delude themselves into the belief that their eyes were invisible. Finally, Tom arose. “Deacon—boys,” he said, “I never got that letter. I wus afeard she’d hear about my scrape, so I wrote her all about it, ez soon ez I got sober, an’ begged her to forgive me. An’ I waited an’ hoped an’ prayed for an answer, till I growed desperate, an’ came out here.”
“She never heerd from you, Thomas,” sighed the deacon.