sprees at Tough Case were grand, and they took place every Sunday. It
was not a fight, for when the average of fully-developed fights fell
below one a fortnight, some patriotic citizen would improvise one, that
the honor of his village should not suffer.

No; all these promoters of delicious and refreshing Tumult were as
nothing to the agitation which, commencing three months before, had
increased and taken firmer hold of all hearts at Tough Case, until
to-day it had reached its culmination.

Blizzer's wife had come out, and was to reach camp by that day's boat.

Since Blizzer had first announced his expectation, every man in camp had
been secretly preparing for the event; but to-day all secrecy was at an
end, and white shirts, standing collars, new pants, black hats, polished
boots, combs, brushes and razors, and even hair-oil and white
handkerchiefs, so transformed the tremulous miners, that a smart
detective would have been puzzled in looking for any particular citizen
of Tough Case.

Even old Hatchetjaw, whose nickname correctly indicated the moral
import of his countenance, sheepishly gave Moosoo, the old Frenchman, an
ounce of gold-dust for an hour's labor bestowed on Hatchetjaw's
self-asserting red hair.

Bets as to what she looked like were numerous; and, as no one had the
slightest knowledge on the subject, experienced bettists made handsome
fortunes in betting against every description which was backed by money.
For each man had so long pondered over the subject, that his ideal
portrait seemed to him absolutely correct; and an amateur phrenologist,
who had carefully studied Blizzer's cranium and the usually accepted
laws of affinity, consistently bet his last ounce, his pistol, hut,
frying-pan, blankets, and even a pack of cards in a tolerable state of
preservation.

Sailors, collegemen, Pikes, farmers, clerks, loafers, and
sentimentalists, stood in front of Sim Ripson's store, and stared their
eyes into watery redness in vain attempts to hurry the boat.

A bet of drinks for the crowd, lost by the non-arrival of the boat on
time, was just being paid, when Sim Ripson, whose bar-window commanded
the river, exclaimed:

"She's comin'!"

Many were the heeltaps left in glasses as the crowd hurried to the door;
numerous were the stealthy glances bestowed on shirt-cuffs and
finger-nails and boot-legs. Crosstree, a dandyish young sailor, hung
back to regard himself in a small fragment of looking-glass he ca