“Well, sir, I put the Old Missouri River to bed that night, and he’d flattened out to a very small streamlet indeed, while the locomotive went lame before supper, and had to be put in the round-house by a couple of pushers.  That’s the way with fine ideas.  Cold facts comes and puts a crimp in them.  Once I knew a small feller I could have stuck in my pocket and forgot about, but when we went out and took several prescriptions together on a day, he spoke to me like this.  ‘Red,’ says he, ’put your little hand in mine, and we’ll go and take a bird’s-eye view of the Universe.’  Astonishin’ idea, wasn’t it?  And him not weighing over a hundred pound.  Howsomever, he didn’t take any bird’s-eye view of the Universe—­he only become strikingly indisposed.

“Well, to get back to Boise, you never in all your life saw so many men and brothers as was gathered there that day, and old Aggy, he was one of the centres of attraction.  That big voice and black beard was always where the crowd was thickest, and the wet goods flowing the freest.  ‘Gentlemen!’ says he, ’Let’s lift up our voices in melody!’ That was one of Ag’s delusions—­he thought he could sing.  So four of ’em got on top of a billiard table and presented ‘Rocked in the Cradle of the Deep’ to the company, which made me feel glad that I hadn’t been brought up that way.  After Ag had hip-locked the last low note, another song-bird volunteered.

“This was a little fat Dutchman, with pale blue eyes and a mustache like two streaks of darning cotton.  He had come to town to sell a pair of beef-steers, but got drawn into the general hilarity, and now he didn’t care a cuss whether he, she, or it ever sold another steer.  He got himself on end and sung ’Leeb Fadderlont moxtrue eckstein’ in a style that made you wonder that the human nose could stand the strain.

“‘Aw, cheese that!’ says a feller near the door.  ’Come get your steers, one of ’em’s just chased the barber up a telegraph pole!’

“So then we all piled out into the street to see the steers.  Sure enough, there was the barber, sitting on the cross-piece, and the steer pawing dirt underneath.

“‘He done made me come a fast heat from de cohner,’ says the barber.  ‘I kep’ hollerin’ “next!” but he ain’t pay no ’tention—­he make it “next” fur me, shuah!  Yah, yah, yah!  You gents orter seen me start at de bottom, an’ slide all de way up disyer telegraft pole!’

“One of the bull-whackers went out to rope the steers, and Ag gave directions from the sidewalk.  He wasn’t very handy with a riata, and that’s a fact, but the way Ag lit into him was scandalous.  When he’d missed about six casts of his rope, Ag opened up on him: 

“‘Put a stamp on it and send it to him by mail,’ says Aggy, in his sourcastic way.  ’Address it, “Bay Steer, middle of Main St., Boise, Idaho.  If not delivered within ten days, return to owner, who can use it to hang himself.”  Blast my hide if I couldn’t stand here and throw a box-car nearer to the critter!  Well, well, well!  How many left hands have you got, anyhow?  Do it up in a wad and heave it at him for general results—­he might get tangled in it.’