"They're out," said he, at last.

"You can't get away from 'em.

They're all over the world." Here, indeed, was trouble, and no opportunity for speech offered for a long time, as we sat moodily in the sun.

At about this time, Tom Osby drove his freight wagon down the street and outspanned at the corral of Whiteman the Jew, just across the street.

Tom tore open a bale of hay, and threw down a handful of precious oats to each of his hump-backed grays, and then sat down on the wagon-tongue, where, as he filled a pipe, he began to sing his favorite song.
"I never _loved_ a fond gazel-l-l-e," he drawled out.