“I am very much disappointed. I expected some money from New York, and it has not come.”
“I hope it will come,” he replied.
I did not like that hope.
In the evening, we met again. He undressed—you know, went to sleep, rose early in the morning, dressed—you know.
The porter came again with letters for him and none for me.
“Well, your money has not come,” he said.
“I see it has not. I’m afraid I’m going to be in a fix what to do.”
“I’m going away this morning.”
“Are you?” I said. “I’m sorry to part with you.”
The frontier man took a little piece of paper and wrote something on it.