e could make a man of me."

I don't know of a more dingy and desolate-looking town than Purdy. The
houses are old, and the streets are rutted. The court-house, in the
center of the square--my temple of fame--is mean and rain-streaked. And
this is what I saw at a glance: An enormous wooden watch, with its paint
cracking off, hanging in front of a jeweler's; the mortar and pestle of
a druggist on top of a post; a brick jail, with a pale face at the bars;
lawyers' signs; doctors' signs; a livery stable, with a negro in front,
pouring water on the wheels of a buggy; a red-looking negro, with a
string of shuck horse collars; a dog in front of the court-house
sniffing at a hog; the tavern, with its bell outside on a pole; men
pitching horse-shoes in the shade; a woman, with her arms on a gate; a
girl trying to pull a dirty child into a yard; a man in front of a store
stuffing straw into a box; horses tied to racks about the square; men
lolling about the court-house--these features made the face of Purdy.

We had put up the horse, Alf had gone to see a friend of his and I was
walking past a vacant lot when some one shouted at me, and, turning
round, I saw a man coming toward me. "Helloa, there," he said, coming
up, smiling. "You ought not to forget your old friends."

"Oh," I replied, recalling his face, "you are the agent at the station
where I got off the train."

"Yes, used to be," he said, shaking hands with me, "but I'm over here
now, but not as a railroad agent, for there's no road here. I am the
honored and distinguished telegraph operator of this commercial
emporium. Couldn't stay over yonder any longer. No calico--not a rag
there. Got to see the flirt of calico. See that?" A woman was passing.
"You can stand here and see it going along all the time, and you've got
to be mighty respectful toward it, I tell you, for there's a shot-gun in
every house and a father or a brother more than ready to pull both
triggers at once. That's right, I suppose; but it does hamper a fellow
mightily. Ever in St. Louis? That's the place. Muslin and soft goods
everywhere and nine chances to one there ain't a gun in the house. Might
be, you know, but there is so much mull and moriantique and all that
sort of thing that there ain't guns enough to go round, so you can
smile and nod on the street; but you can't do it here. Here you've got
to have a three-ply, doubled and twisted introduction before you can
smile even at cottonade. I've been