Still maintaining his silence, Uncle Jim trailed Dickson to his home when the day was ended. He had dinner in the kitchen with the servants and a little later was to be taken to the train which would carry him back to his home in Sunflower County. Toward dark Dickson went to the back of the house to bid his guest farewell. Uncle Jim, with his shoes off, sat on the lowermost step of the porch easing his tired feet. “Uncle Jim,” said Dickson, “I’m afraid you haven’t enjoyed your trip very much.” “W’y, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, “whut meks you think dat? I ain’t never gwine furgit whut I seen to-day ez long ez I lives, an’ I’s always gwine be grateful to you, suh.” “But you haven’t said anything about the circus. What made you so dumb?” “Well, suh, my eyes beheld so much dat it seem lak my tongue forgot to wag.” “Oh, that was it? Well, of all the things you’ve seen to-day what impressed you most?” “All of it ’pressed me—frum de start to de finish.” “Yes, I know, but there must have been some one thing that stands out in your mind above all the others—something that seemed to you more amazing than anything else. Think the whole day over, now, and see if you can tell me what that thing is.” “Well, suh, Mist’ Dickson,” said Uncle Jim, after a period of reflection, “ef it comes down to jes’ one thing, I’d say de thing w’ich hit me de hardest was dat air beast w’ich dey calls de camel. Uh,—dat camel!” “Why the camel particularly?” asked Dickson. “Mist’ Dickson,” said Jim, “he’s got such a noble smell!” § 364 A Tribute—with One Reservation A distinguished member of the Little Rock bar was notable for two things: his capacity for chambering good, red liquor and his ability to speak eloquently at short notice upon any conceivable subject. Oratorically, he was even as the rock which Moses smote—one cue, one suggestion, one invitation and from him there would pour a glittering, noble stream of language. One night at a banquet in his home city the toastmaster conspired with certain of the guests to play a trick upon this talented gentleman; in fact, I believe a wager was laid. The plot was launched early in the evening when he was informed that, contrary to the local custom, he would not be called upon for any remarks. Then privily, a waiter was instructed to station himself behind the chair of Colonel Doolove—that being the orator’s name—with orders to see to it that the Colonel’s toddy glass was replenished as often as he might empty it. So well did the waiter obey his orders that by the time the hour for the speech-making rolled around the Colonel appeared to be almost in a state of coma. The toastmaster felt that the moment had come for springing his surprise. Perhaps I should have stated earlier that the bet was to the effect that there was at least one toast to which the Colonel, drunk or sober, could never respond with fitting words.