"I shall never forget," said Bony to the Curly Kid, who had by his remarks proved himself to be a beggar equal to any emergency--"I shall never forget my disgust when, one Sunday morning, I found myself accidentally in a town where public-houses are shut on the Sabbath day. I had to beg of proud, neatly-dressed church-goers, for the good-natured drinking man had not the heart to come out of doors, and you can imagine my ill success. How I wished all these people who were carrying Bibles and Prayer-books had bottles and jugs instead!" How the hours passed, looking on these delightful companions! The first to leave was Tim, for Oaklahoma Sam had become personal about his rough beard, and wanted to shave him, there and then, with his knife; and, in fact, was sharpening it on a stone for that purpose, which I had often seen him do before. Tim civilly but firmly refused this kindness at Sam's hands, and, being afraid that he might be forced to undergo such an operation, got up, and saying "Good night, all," left the room. Others followed, one by one, and two by two, until at last I was left alone with Brum. "Yes, and I must go too," said he; "for I intend to call on a dentist who is good for twenty-five cents." Saying which he also departed, leaving me standing alone, sad and motionless, at the end of the table. "Here," said I, walking up the room, and looking affectionately at an empty chair--"here sat Wee Scotty; here sat Monkey Jim, and there sat Never Sweat; here sat Rags, and there sat Cinders; here sat Tim, and there sat Oaklahoma Sam." Indeed, there could be no mistake as to where Sam sat, for he had used his knife to such purpose, in describing the position of Napoleon, Blucher, and Wellington, and their rapid movements in the heat of battle, that the table-cloth was all in rags, and that part of the table was in splinters for nearly two feet square. I stood undecided, for I had tasted their life, and I knew that it was after all far better than the chained life I was now leading. In an instant I made up my mind to follow Brum, and again enjoy the open-air camp fires, and saunterings in strange towns, and lying under shady trees in quiet woods, beside fresh springs. But I had scarcely moved when the room turned into a stone cell, and the wooden door became steel, and thick iron bars crossed the window. It must have been the strong feeling, incident to such a change, that made me wake. I found myself sleeping alone in a small, poorly-furnished cottage, a stranger newly arrived in a strange village; and I had to admit, as a man in possession of all his senses, that I had far less cause to be happy than when I was a nameless wanderer with Brum in Louisiana, with Australian Red in Michigan, or cabined with Wee Scotty and Oaklahoma Sam on the cattleship _Tritonia_. XXXVI The Literary Life