"Ah," says he, "my young friends, these deleterious pleasures change peaceful stomachs into seats of war; but the sausage soothes, the milk assuages, the pie persuades, and b'ar sign is sure good to fill up corners. Beware of vanities, and when we get to the stable-yard let Mutiny here stand guard in case I'm attacked, while I expound the blessedness of simple things. Well, here we are—you Mutiny, fall back, you lop-eared mongrel; I'm dying for a chew of 'baccy, and I'd give my off lung for a cocktail."
Mutiny stood guard, Cranky hustled off to get liquor.
"I got a line of retreat from here," says Captain McCalmont, "and a saddled hawss within reach. No, not that painted plug, but a sure crackerjack, which can burn the trail if I'm chased. How's things, you Chalkeye?"
"Clouding for storm," says I; "the air's a-crackling."
"Why for?"
I told him about his son, holed up in gaol with Jim at La Morita.
"I been projecting around thar last night"—the Captain was eating my plug tobacco like bread. "Was it you sent that doctor to Curly's wound?"
"Sure thing, sir. Why?"
He grabbed my paw. "You're white all through," says he; "that kid is all I care for in this world."
"Can they escape?"