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in the cottonwoods and was safe.

One of these fellows was about seventy or upwards, and had a bald head and very gray whiskers. He had an old battered-up slouch hat on, and a greasy blue woollen shirt, and ragged old blue jeans britches stuffed into his boot-tops, and home-knit gallusesā ā€”no, he only had one. He had an old long-tailed blue jeans coat with slick brass buttons flung over his arm, and both of them had big, fat, ratty-looking carpetbags.

The other fellow was about thirty, and dressed about as ornery. After breakfast we all laid off and talked, and the first thing that come out was that these chaps didnā€™t know one another.

ā€œWhat got you into trouble?ā€ says the baldhead to tā€™other chap.

ā€œWell, Iā€™d been selling an article to take the tartar off the teethā ā€”and it does take it off, too, and generly the enamel along with itā ā€”but I stayed about one night longer than I ought to, and was just in the act of sliding out when I ran across you on the trail this side of town, and you told me they were coming, and begged me to help you to get off. So I told you I was expecting trouble myself, and would scatter out with you. Thatā€™s the whole yarnā ā€”whatā€™s yourn?

ā€œWell, Iā€™d ben a-runningā€™ a little temperance revival thar ā€™bout a week, and was the pet of the women folks, big and little, for I was makinā€™ it mighty warm for the rummies, I tell you, and takinā€™ as much as five or six dollars a nightā ā€”ten cents a head, children and niggers freeā ā€”and business a-growinā€™ all the time, when somehow or another a little report got around last night that I had a way of puttinā€™ in my time with a private jug on the sly. A nigger rousted me out this morninā€™, and told me the people was getherinā€™ on the quiet with their dogs and horses, and theyā€™d be along pretty soon and give me ā€™bout half an hourā€™s start, and then run me down if they could; and if they got me theyā€™d tar and feather me and ride me on a rail, sure. I didnā€™t wait for no breakfastā ā€”I warnā€™t hungry.ā€

ā€œOld man,ā€ said the young one, ā€œI reckon we might double-team it together; what do you think?ā€

ā€œI ainā€™t undisposed. Whatā€™s your lineā ā€”mainly?ā€

ā€œJour printer by trade; do a little in patent medicines; theater-actorā ā€”tragedy, you know; take a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when thereā€™s a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimesā ā€”oh, I do lots of thingsā ā€”most anything that comes handy, so it ainā€™t work. Whatā€™s your lay?ā€

ā€œIā€™ve done considerble in the doctoring way in my time. Layinā€™ on oā€™ hands is my best holtā ā€”for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I kā€™n tell a fortune pretty good when Iā€™ve got somebody along to find out the facts for me. Preachinā€™s my line, too, and workinā€™ camp-meetinā€™s, and missionaryinā€™ around.ā€

Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says:

ā€œAlas!ā€

ā€œWhat ā€™re you alassinā€™ about?ā€ says the baldhead.

ā€œTo think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company.ā€ And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag.

ā€œDern your skin, ainā€™t the company good enough for you?ā€ says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish.

ā€œYes, it is good enough for me; itā€™s as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high? I did myself. I donā€™t blame you, gentlemenā ā€”far from it; I donā€™t blame anybody. I deserve it all. Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I knowā ā€”thereā€™s a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as itā€™s always done, and take everything from meā ā€”loved ones, property, everything; but it canā€™t take that. Some day Iā€™ll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.ā€ He went on a-wiping.

ā€œDrot your pore broken heart,ā€ says the baldhead; ā€œwhat are you heaving your pore broken heart at us fā€™r? We hainā€™t done nothing.ā€

ā€œNo, I know you havenā€™t. I ainā€™t blaming you, gentlemen. I brought myself downā ā€”yes, I did it myself. Itā€™s right I should sufferā ā€”perfectly rightā ā€”I donā€™t make any moan.ā€

ā€œBrought you down from whar? Whar was you brought down from?ā€

ā€œAh, you would not believe me; the world never believesā ā€”let it passā ā€”ā€™tis no matter. The secret of my birthā ā€”ā€

ā€œThe secret of your birth! Do you mean to sayā ā€”ā€

ā€œGentlemen,ā€ says the young man, very solemn, ā€œI will reveal it to you, for I feel I may have confidence in you. By rights I am a duke!ā€

Jimā€™s eyes bugged out when he heard that; and I reckon mine did, too. Then the baldhead says: ā€œNo! you canā€™t mean it?ā€

ā€œYes. My great-grandfather, eldest son of the Duke of Bridgewater, fled to this country about the end of the last century, to breathe the pure air of freedom; married here, and died, leaving a son, his own father dying about the same time. The second son of the late duke seized the titles and estatesā ā€”the infant real duke was ignored. I am the lineal descendant of that infantā ā€”I am the rightful Duke of Bridgewater; and here am I, forlorn, torn from my high estate, hunted of men, despised by the cold world, ragged, worn, heartbroken, and degraded to the companionship of felons on a raft!ā€

Jim pitied him ever so much, and so did I. We tried to comfort him, but he said it warnā€™t much use, he couldnā€™t be much comforted; said if we was a mind to acknowledge him, that would do him more good than most anything else; so we said we would, if he would tell us how. He said we ought to bow when we spoke to him, and say ā€œYour Grace,ā€ or ā€œMy Lord,ā€ or ā€œYour Lordshipā€ā ā€”and he wouldnā€™t mind it if we called him plain ā€œBridgewater,ā€ which, he said, was a title anyway, and not

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