CHAPTER XX.
Colonel Coyote Clubbs.
"Which as a roole," said the Old Cattleman, "I speaks with deference an' yields respects to whatever finds its source in nacher, but this yere weather simply makes sech attitoode reedic'lous, an' any encomiums passed thar-on would sound sarkastic." Here my friend waved a disgusted hand towards the rain-whipped panes and shook his head.
"Thar's but one way to meet an' cope successful with a day like this," he ran on, "an' that is to put yourse'f in the hands of a joodicious barkeep--put yourse'f in his hands an' let him pull you through.
Actin' on this idee I jest despatches my black boy Tom for a pitcher of peach an' honey, an', onless you-all has better plans afoot, you might as well camp an' wait deevelopments, same as old man Wasson does when he's treed by the b'ar." Promptly came the peach and honey, and with its appearance the pelting storm outside lost power to annoy.

My companion beamingly did me honour in a full glass.

After a moment fraught of silence and peach and honey, and possibly, too, from some notion of pleasing my host with a compliment, I said: "That gentleman with whom you were in converse last evening told me he never passed a more delightful hour than he spent listening to you.

You recall whom I mean ?" "Recall him?
Shore," retorted my friend as he recurred to the pitcher for a second comforter.

"You-all alloodes to the little gent who's lame in the nigh hind laig.