“Thar’s no reply.  Dan, Texas, an’ the others, while Colonel Sterett acquires his licker, shakes their heads dumbly as showin’ they gives it up.

“‘Which you’d shorely never guess!’ retorts the Colonel, wipin’ his lips.  ‘Of a sudden, this wizard tugs somethin’ outen his pocket that looks like a ball of kyarpet-rags.  Holdin’ one end, quick as thought he tosses the ball of kyarpet-rags into the air.  It goes straight up ontil lost to view, onwindin’ itse’f in its flight because of the wizard holdin’ on.

“‘Gents, that ball of kyarpet-rags never does come down no-more!  An’ it’s all done as easy as a set-lock rifle!  The wizard climbs the danglin’ string of kyarpet-rags, hand over hand; then he drifts off an’ up’ards ontil he don’t look bigger than a bumble-bee; an’ then he’s lost in the gatherin’ shadows of the Jooly night.

“‘Squar’ Alexanders, Chet, an’ the village stands strainin’ their eyes for twenty minutes.  But the wizard’s vamosed; an’ at last, when each is convinced tharof, the grown folks led by Squar’ Alexanders reepairs back into the tavern an’ takes another drink.’

“‘That’s a mighty marvellous feat your necromancer performs, Colonel,’ remarks Enright, an’ the old chief is grave as becomes the Colonel’s revelations; ‘he’s a shore-enough wonder-worker, that wizard is!’

“But I ain’t got to the wonders none as yet,’ reemonstrates the Colonel, who spunks up a bit peevish for him.  ‘An’ from the frequent way wherein I’m interrupted, it don’t look much like I will.  Goin’ sailin’ away into darklin’ space with that ball of enchanted kyarpet-rags,—­that ain’t the sooper-nacheral part at all!  Shore! ondoubted it’s some hard to do as a feat, but still thar’s other feachers which from the standp’int of the marvellous overpowers it like four kings an’ a ace.  That wonder is this:  It’s quarter to eight when the wizard takes his flight by means of the kyarpet-rags.  Gents, at eight o’clock sharp the same evenin’ he walks on the stage an’ gives a show at St. Looey, hundreds of miles away.’”

CHAPTER XIX.

The Luck of Hardrobe.

“Which I tells this yere narrative first, back in one of them good old Red Light evenin’s when it’s my turn to talk.”

The Old Cattleman following this remark, considered me for a moment in silence.  I had myself been holding the floor of discussion in a way both rambling and pointless for some time.  I had spoken of the national fortune of Indians, their superstitions, their ill-luck, and other savage subjects various and sundry.  My discourse had been remarkable perhaps for emphasis rather than accuracy; and this too held a purpose.  It was calculated to rouse my raconteur and draw him to a story.  Did what I say lack energy, he might go to sleep in his chair; he had done this more than once when I failed of interest.  Also, if what I told were wholly true and wanting in ripple of romantic error, even though my friend did me the compliment of wakefulness, he would make no comment.  Neither was he likely to be provoked to any recital of counter experiences.  At last, however, he gave forth the observation which I quote above and I saw that I had brought him out.  I became at once wordless and, lighting a cigar, leaned back to listen.