In one hand he held Miss Banks's bloody handkerchief and in the other a common school text-book on physiology.

His badges and stars fairly revelled in their own importance.
"Don't pester him with questions," warned Isaac Porter, addressing Alf Reesling, the town drunkard, who had just arrived.
"But I got something I want to say to him," persisted Alf eagerly.

Two or three strong men restrained him.
"Thunderation, Alf," whispered Elon Jones, "cain't you see he's figurin' something out?
You're liable to throw him clear off the track if you say a word to him." "Well, this is something he'd oughter know," almost whimpered Alf, rubbing his frozen ears.
"Sh!" muttered the bystanders, and poor Alf subsided.

He was unceremoniously hustled into the background as Mr.Crow moved from the window toward the group.
"Gentlemen," said Anderson gravely, "there is somethin' wrong here." It is barely possible that this was not news to the crowd, but with one accord they collectively and severally exchanged looks of appreciation.
"I've been readin' up a bit on the human body, an' I've proved one thing sure in my own mind." "You bet you have, Anderson," said Elon Jones.

"It's all settled.