outhern gentleman--blank
it!--who has stood at the head of his profession for thirty-five years,
obliged to work like a blank nigger, sir, in the dirty squabbles of
psalm-singing Yankee traders, instead of--er--attending to the affairs
of--er--legislation!"

"But you manage to get pretty good fees out of it--Colonel?" continued
Pyecroft, with a laugh.

"Fees, sir! Filthy shekels! and barely enough to satisfy a debt of
honor with one hand, and wipe out a tavern score for the entertainment
of--er--a few lady friends with the other!"

This allusion to his losses at poker, as well as an oyster supper
given to the two principal actresses of the "North Star Troupe," then
performing in the town, convinced Mr. Pyecroft that the colonel was in
one of his "moods," and he changed the subject.

"That reminds me of a little joke that happened in Sacramento last week.
You remember Dick Stannard, who died a year ago--one of your friends?"

"I have yet to learn," interrupted the colonel, with the same deadly
deliberation, "what right HE--or ANYBODY--had to intimate that he
held such a relationship with me. Am I to understand, sir, that
he--er--publicly boasted of it?"

"Don't know!" resumed Pyecroft hastily; "but it don't matter, for if he
wasn't a friend it only makes the joke bigger. Well, his widow didn't
survive him long, but died in the States t'other day, leavin' the
property in Sacramento--worth about three thousand dollars--to
her little girl, who is at school at Santa Clara. The question of
guardianship came up, and it appears that the widow--who only knew you
through her husband--had, some time before her death, mentioned YOUR
name in that connection! He! he!"

"What!" said Colonel Starbottle, starting up.

"Hold on!" said Pyecroft hilariously. "That isn't all! Neither the
executors nor the probate judge knew you from Adam, and the Sacramento
bar, scenting a good joke, lay low and said nothing. Then the old fool
judge said that 'as you appeared to be a lawyer, a man of mature years,
and a friend of the family, you were an eminently fit person, and ought
to be communicated with'--you know his hifalutin' style. Nobody says
anything. So that the next thing you'll know you'll get a letter from
that executor asking you to look after that kid. Ha! ha! The boys said
they could fancy they saw you trotting around with a ten year old girl
holding on to your hand, and the Senorita Dolores or Miss Bellamont
looking on! Or your