find a
protector in man against such bloodthirsty foes; so we dismounted and
despatched the whole of his assailants; but as the poor stallion was
wounded beyond all cure, and would indubitably have fallen a prey to
another pack of his prairie foes, we also despatched him with a shot of
a rifle. It was an act of humanity, but still the destruction of this
noble animal in the wilderness threw a gloom over our spirits. The
doctor perceiving this, thought it advisable to enliven us with the
following story:--

"All the New York amateurs of oysters know well the most jovial
tavern-keeper in the world, old Slick Bradley, the owner of the
'Franklin,' in Pearl-street. When you go to New York, mind to call upon
him, and if you have any relish for a cool sangaree, a mint-julep, or a
savoury oyster-soup, none can make it better than Slick Bradley.
Besides, his bar is snug, his little busy wife neat and polite, and if
you are inclined to a spree, his private rooms up-stairs are comfortable
as can be.

"Old Slick is good-humoured and always laughing; proud of his cellar, of
his house, of his wife, and, above all, proud of the sign-post hanging
before his door; that is to say, a yellow head of Franklin, painted by
some bilious chap, who looked in the glass for a model.

"Now Slick has kept house for more than forty years, and though he has
made up a pretty round sum, he don't wish to leave off the business. No!
till the day of his death he will remain in his bar, smoking his
Havanas, and mechanically playing with the two pocket-books in his deep
waistcoat pockets--one for the ten-dollar notes and above, the other for
the fives, and under. Slick Bradley is the most independent man in the
world; he jokes familiarly with his customers, and besides their bill of
fare, he knows how to get more of their money by betting, for betting is
the great passion of Slick; he will bet anything, upon everything:
contradict him in what he says, and down come the two pocket-books under
your nose. 'I know better,' he will say, 'don't I? What will you
bet--five, ten, fifty, hundred? Tush! you dare not bet, you know you are
wrong;' and with an air of superiority and self-satisfaction, he will
take long strides over his well-washed floor, repeating, 'I
know better.'

"Slick used once to boast that he had never lost a bet; but since a
little incident which made all New York laugh at him, he confesses that
he did once meet with his match, for though he