then the agent connects with Bill an' sizes him up.
The agent asks Bill does he stand in on this yere Black Dog war-dance.

"'Don't they have no roast dog at that warjig?' asks Dan Boggs, when I'm
relatin' these reminiscences in the Red Light.

"'No,' I says; 'Osages don't eat no dogs.'

"'It's different with Utes a lot,' says Dan, 'Which Utes regyards dogs
fav'rable, deemin' 'em a mighty sucyoolent an' nootritious dish. The
time I'm with the Utes they pulls off a shindig, "tea dance" it is, an',
as what Huggins would call "a star feacher" they ups an' roasts a white
dog. That canine is mighty plethoric an' fat, an' they lays him on his
broad, he'pless back an' shets off his wind with a stick cross-wise of
his neck, an' two bucks pressin' on the ends. When he's good an' dead
an' all without no suffoosion of blood, the Utes singes his fur off in a
fire an' bakes him as he is. I partakes of that dog--some. I don't
nacherally lay for said repast wide-jawed, full-toothed an' reemorseless,
like it's flapjacks--I don't gorge myse'f none; but when I'm in Rome, I
strings my chips with the Romans like the good book says, an' so I sort
o' eats baked dog with the Utes. Otherwise, I'd hurt their
sens'bilities; an' I ain't out to harrow up no entire tribe an' me
playin' a lone hand.'

"That agent questions Bill as to the war-dance carryin's on of old Black
Dog. Then he p'ints at Bill's blankets an' feathers an' shakes his head
a heap disapprobative.

"'Shuck them blankets an' feathers,' says the agent, 'an' get back into
your trousers a whole lot; an' be sudden about it, too. I puts up with
the divers an' sundry rannikabooisms of old an' case-hardened Injuns
who's savage an' ontaught. But you're different; you've been to school
an' learned the virchoos of pants; wherefore, I looks for you to set
examples.'

"It's then Bill gets high an' allows he'll wear clothes to suit himse'f.
Bill denounces trousers as foolish in their construction an' fallacious
in their plan. Bill declar's they're a bad scheme, trousers is; an' so
sayin' he defies the agent to do his worst. Bill stands pat on blankets
an' feathers.

"'Which you will, will you!' remarks this agent.

"Then he claps Bill in irons mighty decisive, an' plants him up ag'in the
high face of a rock bluff which has been frownin' down on Bird River
since Adam makes his first camp. Havin' got Bill posed to his notion,
this earnest agent, puttin' a hammer into Bill's