It was thus we had come to look at our enterprise--a game between a well-established, respectable weather bureau and an upstart charlatan. And it was the charlatan had our sympathy--as all charlatans, whether religious, military, medical, political, or what not, have with the average American. We met him at the station. That is, Ogden, McLean, and I; and the Governor, being engaged, sent (unofficially) his secretary and the requested cart. Lin was anxious to see what would be put in the cart, and I was curious about how a rain-maker would look. But he turned out an unassuming, quiet man in blue serge, with a face you could not remember afterwards, and a few civil, ordinary remarks. He even said it was a hot day, as if he had no relations with the weather; and what he put into the cart were only two packing-boxes of no special significance to the eye. He desired no lodging at the hotel, but to sleep with his apparatus in the building provided for him; and we set out for it at once. It was an untenanted barn, and he asked that he and his assistant might cut a hole in the roof, upon which we noticed the assistant for the first time--a tallish, good-looking young man, but with a weak mouth. “This is Mr. Lusk,” said the rain-maker; and we shook hands, Ogden and I exchanging a glance. Ourselves and the cart marched up Hill Street--or Capitol Avenue, as it has become named since Cheyenne has grown fuller of pomp and emptier of prosperity--and I thought we made an unusual procession: the Governor's secretary, unofficially leading the way to the barn; the cart, and the rain-maker beside it, guarding his packed-up mysteries; McLean and Lusk, walking together in unconscious bigamy; and in the rear, Odgen nudging me in the ribs. That it was the correct Lusk we had with us I felt sure from his incompetent, healthy, vacant appearance, strong-bodied and shiftless--the sort of man to weary of one trade and another, and make a failure of wife beating between whiles. In Twenty-fourth Street--the town's uttermost rim--the Governor met us, and stared at Lusk. “Christopher!” was his single observation; but he never forgets a face--cannot afford to, now that he is in politics; and, besides, Lusk remembered him. You seldom really forget a man to whom you owe ten dollars. “So you've quit hauling poles?” said the Governor. “Nothing in it, sir,” said Lusk. “Is there any objection to my having a hole in the roof?” asked the rain-maker; for this the secretary had been unable to tell him. “What! going to throw your bombs through it?” said the Governor, smiling heartily. But the rain-maker explained at once that his was not the bomb system, but a method attended by more rain and less disturbance. “Not that the bomb don't produce first-class results at times and under circumstances,” he said, “but it's uncertain and costly.”