"Thet gal," he observed, glancing in the direction that Miss Crabb had gone, "she hev the winnin'est ways of any gal I ever seed in my life. Ye orter seen 'er up inter thet there bush a writin' in 'er book! She'd jes' tumbled kerwhummox down the clift an' hed lodged ther' in them cedars; but as she wer' a writin' when she started ter fall w'y she struck a writin' an' jes' kep' on at it same's if nothin' had happened. She's game, thet ole gal air, I tell ye! She don't propose for any little thing like fallin' off'n a clift, ter interfere with w'at she's a doin' at thet time, le' me say ter ye. Lord but she wer' hongry, though, settin' up ther a writin' all night, an' it'd a done ye good to a seen 'er eat thet chicken and them cake-biscuits my mammy cooked for breakfast. She air a mos' alarmin' fine gal, for a fac'." At this point Dufour came out of the hotel, and when Tolliver saw him there was an instantaneous change in the expression of the mountaineer's face. "Well I'll ber dorged!" he exclaimed with a smile of delight, "ef ther' haint the same leetle John the Baptis' what bapsonsed me down yer inter the branch! Give us yer baby-spanker, ole feller! How air ye!" Dufour cordially shook hands with him, laughing in a jolly way. "Fust an' only man at ever ducked me, I'm here ter say ter ye," Tolliver went on, in a cheery, half-bantering tone, and sitting sidewise on the mule. "Ye mus' hev' a sight o' muscle onto them duck legs and bantam arms o' your'n." He had the last word still in his mouth when the little beast suddenly put down its head and flung high its hind feet. "Woirp!" they heard him cry, as he whirled over in the air and fell sprawling on the ground. Dufour leaped forward to see if the man was hurt, but Tolliver was upright in an instant and grinning sheepishly. "Thet's right, Bonus," he said to the mule which stood quite still in its place, "thet's right ole fel, try ter ac' smart in comp'ny. Yer a beauty now, ain't ye?" He replaced his hat, which had fallen from his head, patted the mule caressingly on the neck, then lightly vaulting to the old saddle-tree, he waved his hand to the company and turning dashed at a gallop down the mountain road, his spurs jingling merrily as he went. "What a delicious character!" "What precious dialect!" "How typically American!" "A veritable hero!" Everybody at Hotel Helicon appeared to have been captivated by this droll fellow. "How like Tolstoi's lovely Russians he is!" observed Miss Fidelia Arkwright, of Boston, a near-sighted maiden who did translations and who doted on virile literature. "When I was in Russia, I visited Tolstoi at his shoe-shop--" began Crane, but nobody appeared to hear him, so busy were all in making notes for a dialect story.