rried
in his pocket, but was rebuked for his vanity by stumbling over the
door-sill--an operation which finally resulted in his nose being laid up
in ordinary.

The little steamer neared the landing, whistled shrilly, snorted
defiantly, buried her nose in the muddy bank in front of the store, and
shoved out a plank.

Several red-shirted strangers got off, but no one noticed them; at any
other time, so large an addition to the population of Tough Case would
have justified an extra spree.

Sundry barrels were rolled out, but not even old Guzzle inspected the
brand; barrels and bags of onions and potatoes were stacked on the bank,
but though the camp was sadly in need of vegetables, no one expressed
becoming exultation.

All eyes were fixed on the steamer-end of the gang-plank, and every
heart beat wildly as Blizzer appeared, leading a figure displaying only
the top of a big bonnet and a blanket-shawl hanging on one arm.

They stepped on the gang-plank, they reached the shore, and then the
figure raised its head and dropped the shawl.

"Thunder!" ejaculated Fourteenth Street, and immediately retired and
drank himself into a deplorable condition.

The remaining observers dispersed respectfully; but the reckless manner
in which they wandered through mud-puddles and climbed over barrels and
potato-sacks, indicated plainly that their disappointment had been
severe.

After another liquid bet had been paid, and while sleeves but lately
tenderly protected were carelessly drying damp mustaches, an old miner
remarked:

"Reckon that's why he left the States;" and the emphatic "You bet!"
which followed his words showed that the Tough Caseites were unanimous
on the subject of Mrs. Blizzer.

For she was short and fat, and had a pug nose, and a cast in one eye;
her forehead was low and square, and her hair was of a color which
seemed "fugitive," as the paper-makers say. Her hands were large and
pudgy, her feet afforded broad foundations for the structure above them,
and her gait was not suggestive of any popular style. Besides, she
seemed ten years older than her husband, who was not yet thirty.

For several days boots were allowed to grow rusty and chins unshaven, as
the boys gradually drank and worked themselves into a dumb forgetfulness
of their lately cherished ideals.

But one evening, during a temporary lull in the conversation at Sim
Ripson's, old Uncle Ben, ex-deacon of a New Hampshire church, lifted up
his voic