"You must have drawn your princely stipends this week." He hesitated a moment, pressed his hand to his forehead, cut a fish-hook in the air and resumed his recital: "When I reached Omaha it was snowing.

The heavens wore a feathery frown." "He didn't fill," said Whittlesy.
Flummers condemned him with a look and continued: "The wind whetted itself to keenness on a bleak knob and came down to shave its unhappy customers." "He made his flush," said Whittlesy.
Flummers did not look at him.

"I went immediately to the jail, where one of the rank and file of the Kittymunkses was confined; and say, you ought to have seen the poor, miserable, bug-bitten wretch they stood up in front of me.

He wore about a half-pint of dirty whiskers, and in his make-up he reminded me of a scare-crow that brother and I once made to put out on the farm in Wisconsin.

I have seen a number of Kittymunkses, but he was the worst.