Good-by!" And he went back to his pallet on the floor.

When the rescuers reached the ground the Superior Being delivered himself of some very sulphurous oaths, intended to express his abhorrence of "idees." "There's that air blamed etarnal infarnal nateral born eejiot'll die in Stillwater penitensh'ry jest fer idees.

Orter go to a 'sylum." But the Poet went off dejectedly to his lone cabin on the prairie.
And there was a great row in the morning about the breaking open of the window and the attempted rescue.

The deputy marshal told a famous story of his awaking in the night and driving off a rescuing party of eight with his revolver.

And everybody wondered who they were.