“Mr. Vice-President,” said the judge, turning to Mr. Doole, “did n’t I onderstand you to say that person’ly you’d no objections to loanin’ me the money?” “I think I made such an observation,—yes!” replied Mr. Doole. “Stanton,” continued the judge, with awful seriousness, “is n’t it a fact that you said you’d be glad to ‘commodate me if it was a personal matter of your own?” “Yes, I think I said something like that, Judge,” replied Hugh. “Well, gentlemen, person’ly each and every one of you would like to ‘commodate me, but collectively you’ve turned me down; is n’t that ‘bout it?” The directors nodded their heads. “But you see—” said the captain. “Never mind, Captain,” interrupted the judge, “explainin’ don’t count. Here’s what I want to say to you-alls. I jist want to say that person’ly I think you’re a mighty nice lot o’ fellers, but collectively I’m assoomin’ you’re the darndest lot of skates I ever run up agin’.” And, with this parting shot, the judge hastily left the room, muttering dire vengeance against bloated bondholders and coupon-clippers. CHAPTER XXXIV.—THE PRAIRIE-FIRE A KANSAS prairie is a veritable inland sea. From Meade to the northwest a broad expanse of buffalo-grass lands stretched away for many miles, almost as level as the top of a table, without even a single gully or rill to break its tiresome monotony. Often, at night, I have walked along some quiet roadway far into the country, listening to the silence that enveloped me. Sometimes the very air that, seemingly, pulsed with monotonous stillness, would be startled by the sharp, quick bark of a wolf in the distance. I have looked out across these flat table-lands, dimly lighted by the moon in its last quarter, and for hours watched half-formed shadows of passing clouds flit vaguely on across this vast sea of silence, while others followed in countless numbers, until vision became confused and imagination triumphed over knowledge. At such times, in fancy I stood on the beach of a mighty ocean, and each shadow was a sable-shrouded sail-boat carrying my hopes away to some unknown shore of mystery. The hot winds had dried and browned the buffalo-grass. Then the rain came and freshened the landscape into a new life. Several weeks of warm, windy weather had now intervened. The country was becoming parched and dry again. The thick, matted buffalo-grass was cured as effectually as is the Eastern farmer’s hay when it is cut into swaths and dried before it is bunched into windrows. It, however, retained its nutritiousness. Indeed, it was said to be more fattening for the vast herds of cattle than prior to the hot winds.