“So that night I goes up to Mr. Roy Blank by the camp-fire, and looks at him contemptuous and scornful.  ‘Snickenwitzel!’ says I, like the word made me sick; ‘Snickenwitzel!  Bah!  Before I’d be named Snickenwitzel!’

“‘What’s the matter with you, Jeff?’ says the kid, opening his eyes wide.

“‘Snickenwitzel!’ I repeats, and I spat, the word out.  ’I saw a man to-day from your town, and he told me your name.  I’m not surprised you was ashamed to tell it.  Snickenwitzel!  Whew!’

“‘Ah, here, now,’ says the boy, indignant and wriggling all over, ’what’s the matter with you?  That ain’t my name.  It’s Conyers.  What’s the matter with you?’

“‘And that’s not the worst of it,’ I went on quick, keeping him hot and not giving him time to think.  ’We thought you was from a nice, well-to-do family.  Here’s Mr. Little Bear, a chief of the Cherokees, entitled to wear nine otter tails on his Sunday blanket, and Professor Binkly, who plays Shakespeare and the banjo, and me, that’s got hundreds of dollars in that black tin box in the wagon, and we’ve got to be careful about the company we keep.  That man tells me your folks live ’way down in little old Hencoop Alley, where there are no sidewalks, and the goats eat off the table with you.’

“That kid was almost crying now. ‘’Taint so,’ he splutters.  ’He—­he don’t know what he’s talking about.  We live on Poplar Av’noo.  I don’t ‘sociate with goats.  What’s the matter with you?’

“‘Poplar Avenue,’ says I, sarcastic.  ’Poplar Avenue!  That’s a street to live on!  It only runs two blocks and then falls off a bluff.  You can throw a keg of nails the whole length of it.  Don’t talk to me about Poplar Avenue.’

“‘It’s—­it’s miles long,’ says the kid.  ’Our number’s 862 and there’s lots of houses after that.  What’s the matter with—­aw, you make me tired, Jeff.’

“‘Well, well, now,’ says I.  ’I guess that man made a mistake.  Maybe it was some other boy he was talking about.  If I catch him I’ll teach him to go around slandering people.’  And after supper I goes up town and telegraphs to Mrs. Conyers, 862 Poplar Avenue, Quincy, Ill., that the kid is safe and sassy with us, and will be held for further orders.  In two hours an answer comes to hold him tight, and she’ll start for him by next train.

“The next train was due at 6 P.M. the next day, and me and John Tom was at the depot with the kid.  You might scour the plains in vain for the big Chief Wish-Heap-Dough.  In his place is Mr. Little Bear in the human habiliments of the Anglo-Saxon sect; and the leather of his shoes is patented and the loop of his necktie is copyrighted.  For these things John Tom had grafted on him at college along with metaphysics and the knockout guard for the low tackle.  But for his complexion, which is some yellowish, and the black mop of his straight hair, you might have thought here was an ordinary man out of the city directory that subscribes for magazines and pushes the lawn-mower in his shirt-sleeves of evenings.