en thar's famine in Canaan thar's corn in
Egypt. S'ppose we-all goes romancin' over to the Red Light an' licker
up. Thar's nothin' like nosepaint, took internal, for bringin' out a
picture's convincin' p'ints.'

"'Right you be, Doc,' says Moore. 'It's only last week, when I myse'f
cuts the trail of Monte, who, as the froote of merely the seventh
drink, is sheddin' scaldin' tears over a three-sheet poster stuck onto
the corral gate. This yere stampede in color deepicts the death of
"Little Eva," as preesented in the _Uncle Tom_ show ragin' over to the
Bird Cage Op'ry House. Monte allows it's one of the most movin' things
he's ever met up with, an' protests between sobs ag'inst takin' out
the stage that day for its reg'lar trip. "Which it's a hour for
mournin'," he groans; an' he's shore shocked when the company insists.
As he throws free the brake he shakes the tears from his eyes, an'
says, "These yere corp'rations ain't got no heart!"'

"If thar's ever any chance of Enright bein' that weak the sight of
them smudges an' smears settles it, an' while we stands shovin' the
Old Jordan along the Red Light bar, he allows to Mike that on the
whole he don't reckon he'll have himse'f painted none. Rememberin',
however, that it's a ground-hawg case with Mike, who needs the money,
Enright gives him a commission to paint Monte.

"'Him bein' a histor'cal character, that a-way,' says Enright.

"Monte is over in Tucson, but you should have heard that drunkard's
language when he's told.

"'Whatever be you-all tryin' to do to me, Sam?' he wails. 'Ain't a
workin' man got no rights? Yere be I, the only gent in camp who has
actchooal dooties to perform, an' a plot is set afoot behind my back
to make me infamous!'

"'It's to go over the Red Light bar,' explains Enright, 'to be a
horr'ble example for folks with a tendency to over-drink. As for you
yellin' like a pig onder a gate, who is it, I asks, that beguiles this
indigent artist party into camp, an' leaves him on our hands? Bein'
he's yere, I takes it that even your whiskey-drowned intell'gence
ree'lizes that this yere Mike, an' speshully the little blind Joolie,
has got to be fed.'

"'Well, gents,' returns Monte, gulpin' down his grief with his
nosepaint, 'I reckons if it's your little game to use me as a
healthful moral inflooence, I'd lose out to go puttin' up a roar. All
the same, as sufferer in chief, I'm entitled to be more consulted by
you uplifters before ever you arrang