ovel, and pan, but bedclothing was an article which at that moment
they scorned to consider; there was important business and
entertainment, which would postpone sleep for many hours.

The express would be along in the morning, and no prudent man could
sleep peaceably until he had deposited his gold dust in the company's
strong box. Then there were two or three old feuds which _might_ come to
a head--they always _did_ on Sunday. And above all, Redwing, a man with
enormous red whiskers, had been threatening all week to have back the
money Flipp had won from him on the preceding Sunday, and Redwing had
been very lucky in his claim all week, and the two men were very nearly
matched, and were magnificent players, so the game promised to last many
hours, and afford handsome opportunities for outside betting.

Sim Ripson understood his business. By sunset he had all his bottles
freshly filled, and all his empty boxes distributed about the room for
seats, and twice as many candles lighted as usual, and the card-tables
reinforced by some upturned barrels. He also had a neat little woodpile
under the bar to serve as a barricade against stray shots.

The boys dropped in pleasantly, two or three at a time, and drank
merrily with each other; and the two or three who were not drinking men
sauntered in to compare notes with the others.

There were no aristocrats or paupers at Tough Case, nor any cliques;
whatever the men were at home, here they were equal, and Sim Ripson's
was the general gathering-place for everybody.

But in the course of two or three hours there was a perceptible change
of the general tone at Sim Ripson's--it was so every Saturday night, or
Sunday morning. Old Hatchetjaw said it was because Sim Ripson's liquor
wasn't good; Moosoo, the Frenchman, maintained it was due to the absence
of chivalrous spirit; Crosstree, the sailor, said it was always so with
landsmen; Fourteenth Street privately confided to several that 'twas
because there was no good blood in camp; the amateur phrenologist
ascribed it to an undue cerebral circulation; and Uncle Ben, the deacon,
insisted upon it that the fiend, personally, was the disturbing element.

Probably all of them were right, for it seemed impossible that the
Sunday excitements at Sim Ripson's could proceed from any single
cause--their proportions were too magnificent.

Drinking, singing, swearing, gambling, and fighting, the Tough Caseites
made night so hideous that Uncle