extended a large hand of welcome and were as brethren,
and I did homage to the Owl and listened to their talk. An Indian Club
about Christmas-time will yield, if properly worked, an abundant harvest
of queer tales; but at a gathering of Americans from the uttermost ends
of their own continent the tales are larger, thicker, more spinous, and
even more azure than any Indian variety. Tales of the War I heard told
by an ex-officer of the South over his evening drink to a Colonel of the
Northern army; my introducer, who had served as a trooper in the
Northern Horse, throwing in emendations from time to time.

Other voices followed with equally wondrous tales of riata-throwing in
Mexico or Arizona, of gambling at army posts in Texas, of newspaper wars
waged in godless Chicago, of deaths sudden and violent in Montana and
Dakota, of the loves of half-breed maidens in the South, and fantastic
huntings for gold in mysterious Alaska. Above all, they told the story
of the building of old San Francisco, when the "finest collection of
humanity on God's earth, Sir, started this town, and the water came up
to the foot of Market Street." Very terrible were some of the tales,
grimly humorous the others, and the men in broadcloth and fine linen who
told them had played their parts in them.

"And now and again when things got too bad they would toll the city
bell, and the Vigilance Committee turned out and hanged the suspicious
characters. A man didn't begin to be suspected in those days till he had
committed at least one unprovoked murder," said a calm-eyed, portly old
gentleman. I looked at the pictures around me, the noiseless,
neat-uniformed waiter behind me, the oak-ribbed ceiling above, the
velvety carpet beneath. It was hard to realise that even twenty years
ago you could see a man hanged with great pomp. Later on I found reason
to change my opinion. The tales gave me a headache and set me thinking.
How in the world was it possible to take in even one-thousandth of this
huge, roaring, many-sided continent? In the silence of the sumptuous
library lay Professor Bryce's book on the American Republic. "It is an
omen," said I. "He has done all things in all seriousness, and he may be
purchased for half a guinea. Those who desire information of the most
undoubted must refer to his pages. For me is the daily round of
vagabondage, the recording of the incidents of the hour, and talk with
the travelling companion of the day. I will not 'do'