“Ho, hum-m-m-m!” says I, and goes to sleep, too.
When I woke up the birds were singing, and the sun was shining through the cracks in the loft. Chuck is still snoring, so I climbs down alone. I’m as dry as a drouth in Arizona, so I pilgrims into Mike’s place regardless of consequences.
The place is fairly filled, and sadness is the prevailing color scheme. On the bar stands Scenery’s old stove-pipe hat, with a wide band of black cloth around it, and Mike’s mirror is hung with the emblem of mourning.
McFee is standing there with bowed head, and sadness fairly drips from his lips.
“It’s a most awful situation,” he orates. “If we could only find a single piece of ’em. There ain’t nothing left—nothing!”
“There ain’t nothing left of poor Chuck either,” tolls Muley. “Poor old Chuck. He was a gentleman and a scholar. I’d love to gaze upon his face once more.
“He’s went away and left us
In the prime of his young life.
He’s gone from this here vale of tears
With all it’s joy and strife.