But the end was not unfitting. The "flyin' mail," the cramped and painful ride, the pelting storm, the dust and gravel, the homeless goal—what could be more symbolic of Old Mary's career! And on the wings of steam and wind her Gipsy spirit went flying—flying.
OLD BOSTON MARY.
[II]
JAMIE THE KID
It was my last night in San Francisco, and I could not leave without saying good-by to Old Slim. His place was almost empty when I strolled in, and he was standing behind his greasy bar counting the day's winnings. The adios was soon said, and I started for the street again. I had hardly left the bar when the door suddenly squeaked on its rickety hinges, and a one-armed man came in with a handsome kid. He was evidently dying of consumption, and as he shuffled clumsily across the floor, with the boy following solemnly at his heels, I fancied that he wanted Slim to help him into a hospital. He called for his drinks, and asked Slim if he knew of any one "bound East" the next day.
"W'y, yes," Slim replied; "that young feller right back o' ye leaves ter-morrer: ain't that right, Cigarette?"