He would tell them that he was bored and thirsty and ask how much longer they were going to stay.

He knew but few of their friends; his home was in a little town in the interior and he prided himself on being a "Native Son of the Golden West." He was a clerk in an insurance office on California Street, and had never been out of the state.
For the rest he was a good enough fellow and the three others liked him very much.

He had a curious passion for facts and statistics, and his pockets were full of little books and cards to which he was constantly referring.

He had one of those impossible pocket-diaries, the first half dozen pages loaded with information of every kind printed in blinding type, postal rates to every country in the world, statistics as to population and rates of death, weights and measures, the highest mountains in the world, the greatest depths of the ocean.

He kept a little book in his left-hand vest pocket that gave the plan and seating capacity of every theatre in the city, while in the right-hand pocket was a tiny Webster's dictionary which was his especial pride.