On the hocks of these catastrophes it's the common notion that nobody better own that opal; an' said malev'lent stone in the dooal capac'ty of a cur'osity an' a warnin' is put in the seegyar case at the Early Rose s'loon.

The first day it's thar, a jeweller sharp come in for his daily drinks--he runs the jewelry store of that meetropolis an' knows about diamonds an' sim'lar jimcracks same as Peets does about drugs--an' he considers this talisman, scrootinisin' it a heap clost.

"Do you-all believe in the bad luck of opals ?" asks a pard who's with him.

"This thing ain't no opal," says the jeweller sharp, lookin' up; "it's glass." "'An' so it is: that baleful gewgaw has been sailin' onder a alias; it ain't no opal more'n a Colt's cartridge is a poker chip.

An', of course, it's plain the divers an' several disasters, from the loss of that kyard gent's bank-roll down to the Mexican nuptials of the ill-advised lady to whom I alloodes, can't be laid to its charge.