He knew every city from Bangor to San Francisco, thence north to Portland, thence S. 45 E. to a given point in Florida.  He had mastered every art, trade, game, business, profession, and sport in the world, had been present at, or hurrying on his way to, every headline event that had ever occurred between oceans since he was five years old.  You might open the atlas, place your finger at random upon the name of a town, and Jacks would tell you the front names of three prominent citizens before you could close it again.  He spoke patronizingly and even disrespectfully of Broadway, Beacon Hill, Michigan, Euclid, and Fifth avenues, and the St. Louis Four Courts.  Compared with him as a cosmopolite, the Wandering Jew would have seemed a mere hermit.  He had learned everything the world could teach him, and he would tell you about it.

I hate to be reminded of Pollok’s “Course of Time,” and so do you; but every time I saw Jacks I would think of the poet’s description of another poet by the name of G. G. Byron who “Drank early; deeply drank—­drank draughts that common millions might have quenched; then died of thirst because there was no more to drink.”

That fitted Jacks, except that, instead of dying, he came to Paloma, which was about the same thing.  He was a telegrapher and station-and express-agent at seventy-five dollars a month.  Why a young man who knew everything and could do everything was content to serve in such an obscure capacity I never could understand, although he let out a hint once that it was as a personal favor to the president and stockholders of the S. P. Ry.  Co.

One more line of description, and I turn Jacks over to you.  He wore bright blue clothes, yellow shoes, and a bow tie made of the same cloth as his shirt.

My rival No.2 was Bud Cunningham, whose services had been engaged by a ranch near Paloma to assist in compelling refractory cattle to keep within the bounds of decorum and order.  Bud was the only cowboy off the stage that I ever saw who looked like one on it.  He wore the sombrero, the chaps, and the handkerchief tied at the back of his neck.

Twice a week Bud rode in from the Val Verde Ranch to sup at the Parisian Restaurant.  He rode a many-high-handed Kentucky horse at a tremendously fast lope, which animal he would rein up so suddenly under the big mesquite at the corner of the brush shelter that his hoofs would plough canals yards long in the loam.

Jacks and I were regular boarders at the restaurant, of course.

The front room of the Hinkle House was as neat a little parlor as there was in the black-waxy country.  It was all willow rocking-chairs, and home-knit tidies, and albums, and conch shells in a row.  And a little upright piano in one corner.

Here Jacks and Bud and I—­or sometimes one or two of us, according to our good-luck—­used to sit of evenings when the tide of trade was over, and “visit” Miss Hinkle.