The old man answered from within. "That was he I asked about the horse-races. He's the man you couldn't understand, who wouldn't talk to you. He's nearly an Indian again. Alicia Harman married a duke."
THE MOON, THE MAID, AND THE WINGED SHOES
The last place I locked wheels with Mike Butters was in Idaho. I'd just sold a silver-lead prospect and was proclaimin' my prosperity with soundin' brass and ticklin' symbols. I was tuned up to G and singin' quartettes with the bartender—opery buffet, so to speak—when in Mike walked. It was a bright morning out-side and I didn't reco'nize him at first against the sunlight.
"Where's that cholera-morbus case?" said he.
"Stranger, them ain't sounds of cramps," I told him. "It's me singin' 'Hell Amongst the Yearlin's.'" Then I seen who he was and I fell among him.
When we'd abated ourselves I looked him over.
"What you doin' in all them good clothes?" I inquired.
"I'm a D.D.S."
"Do tell! All I ever took was the first three degrees. Gimme the grip and the password and I'll believe you."
"That ain't a Masonic symbol," said he. "I'm a dentist—a bony fido dentist, with forceps and a little furnace and a gas-bag and a waitin'-rooms". He swelled up and bit a hang-nail off of his cigar.