e.

Having assured myself that Mr. Hotten was really no more, I drove
furiously bank-ward, hoping that the sad tidings had not preceded me--and
they had not.

Alas! on the route was a certain tap-room greatly frequented by authors,
artists, newspaper men and "gentlemen of wit and pleasure about town."

Sitting about the customary table were a half-dozen or more choice
spirits--George Augustus Sala, Henry Sampson, Tom Hood the younger,
Captain Mayne Reid, and others less known to fame. I am sorry to say my
somber news affected these sinners in a way that was shocking. Their
levity was a thing to shudder at. As Sir Boyle Roche might have said, it
grated harshly upon an ear that had a dubious check in its pocket. Having
uttered their hilarious minds by word of mouth all they knew how, these
hardy and impenitent offenders set about writing "appropriate epitaphs."
Thank Heaven, all but one of these have escaped my memory, one that I
wrote myself. At the close of the rites, several hours later, I resumed my
movement against the bank. Too late--the old, old story of the hare and
the tortoise was told again. The "heavy news" had overtaken and passed me
as I loitered by the wayside.

All attended the funeral--Sala, Sampson, Hood, Reid, and the
undistinguished others, including this present Sole Survivor of the group.
As each cast his handful of earth upon the coffin I am very sure that,
like Lord Brougham on a somewhat similar occasion, we all felt more than
we cared to express. On the death of a political antagonist whom he had
not treated with much consideration his lordship was asked, rather rudely,
"Have you no regrets now that he is gone?"

After a moment of thoughtful silence he replied, with gravity, "Yes; I
favor his return."

* * * * *

One night in the summer of 1880 I was driving in a light wagon through the
wildest part of the Black Hills in South Dakota. I had left Deadwood and
was well on my way to Rockerville with thirty thousand dollars on my
person, belonging to a mining company of which I was the general manager.
Naturally, I had taken the precaution to telegraph my secretary at
Rockerville to meet me at Rapid City, then a small town, on another route;
the telegram was intended to mislead the "gentlemen of the road" whom I
knew to be watching my movements, and who might possibly have a
confederate in the telegraph office. Beside me on the seat of the wagon
sat Boone May.