“I know it,” said the judge, hastening to explain.  “I’d lent my pepperbox to Mose when he went to ‘Frisco, an’ the old man’s too little fur a man uv my size to hit.”

The judge looked anxiously about until he felt assured his explanation had been generally accepted.  Then he continued: 

“What’s he good fur, anyhow?  He can’t sing a song, except somethin’ about ‘Tejus an’ tasteless hours,’ that nobody ever heard before, an’ don’t want to agin; he don’t drink, he don’t play keards, he don’t even cuss when he tumbles into the river.  Ev’ry man’s got his p’ints, an’ ef he hain’t got no good uns, he’s sure to have bad uns.  Ef he’d only show ‘em out, there might be somethin’ honest about it; but when a feller jist eats an’ sleeps an’ works, an’ never shows any uv the tastes uv a gentleman, ther’s somethin’ wrong.”

“I don’t wish him any harm,” said a tall, good-natured fellow, who succeeded the judge; “but the feller’s looks is agin the reputation uv the place.  In a camp like this here one, whar society’s first-class—­no greasers nur pigtails nur loafers—­it ain’t the thing to hev anybody around that looks like a corkscrew that’s been fed on green apples and watered with vinegar—­it’s discouragin’ to gentlemen that might hev a notion of stakin’ a claim, fur the sake uv enjoyin’ our social advantages.”

“N-none uv yer hev got to the wust uv it yit,” remarked another.  “The old cuss is too fond uv his dust.  Billy Banks seen him a-buyin’ pork up to the store, an’ he handled his pouch ez ef ’twas eggs instid of gold dust—­poured it out as keerful ez yer please, an’ even scraped up a little bit he spilt.  Now, when I wuz a little rat, an’ went to Sunday-school, they used to keep a-waggin’ at me ’bout evil communication a-corruptin’ o’ good manners.  That’s what he’ll do—­fust thing yer know, other fellers’ll begin to be stingy, an’ think gold dust wuz made to save instid uv to buy drinks an’ play keards fur. That’s what it’ll come to.”

“Beggin’ ev’rybody’s pardon,” interposed a deserter from the army, “but these here perceedin’s is irreg’lar.  ’Tain’t the square thing to take evidence till the pris’ner’s in court.”

Boston Ben immediately detailed a special officer to summon Old Scrabblegrab, declared a recess of five minutes, and invited the boys to drink with him.

Those who took sugar in theirs had the cup dashed from their lips just as they were draining the delicious dregs, for the officer and culprit appeared, and the chairman rapped the assembly to order.

Boston Ben had been an interested attendant at certain law-courts in the States, so in the calm consciousness of his acquaintance with legal procedure he rapidly arraigned Scrabblegrab.

“Scrabblegrab, you’re complained uv for goin’ back on bitters, coaxin’ Curly to give up keards, thus spoilin’ his fun, an’ knockin’ appreciatin’ observers out of their amusement; uv insultin’ the judge, uv not cussin’ when you stumble into the river, uv not havin’ any good p’ints, an’ not showin’ yer bad ones; uv bein’ a set-back on the tone uv the place—­lookin’ like a green-apple-fed, vinegar-watered corkscrew, or words to that effect; an’, finally, in savin’ yer money.  What hev you got to say agin’ sentence bein’ passed on yer?”