It is enough to add that for those remaining days until the present the unspeakable creature’s mad infatuation for me had made my life well-nigh a torment, to say nothing of its being a matter of low public jesting. Hardly did I dare show myself in the business centres, for as surely as I did the animal found me and crawled to fawn upon me, affecting his release each day in some novel manner. Each morning I looked abroad from my window on arising, more than likely detecting his outstretched form on the walk below, patiently awaiting my appearance, and each night I was liable to dreams of his coming upon me, a monstrous creature, sad-faced but eager, tireless, resolute, determined to have me for his own. Musing desperately over this impossible state of affairs, I was now surprised to receive a letter from the wretched Cousin Egbert, sent by the hand of the Tuttle person. It was written in pencil on ruled sheets apparently torn from a cheap notebook, quite as if proper pens and decent stationery were not to be had, and ran as follows: DEAR FRIEND BILL: Well, Bill, I know God hates a quitter, but I guess I got a streak of yellow in me wider than the Comstock lode. I was kicking at my stirrups even before I seen that bunch of whiskers, and when I took a flash of them and seen he was intending I should go out before folks without any regular pants on, I says I can be pushed just so far. Well, Bill, I beat it like a bat out of hell, as I guess you know by this time, and I would like to seen them catch me as I had a good bronc. If you know whose bronc it was tell him I will make it all O.K. The bronc will be all right when he rests up some. Well, Bill, I am here on the ranche, where everything is nice, and I would never come back unless certain parties agree to do what is right. I would not speak pieces that way for the President of the U.S. if he ask me to on his bended knees. Well, Bill, I wish you would come out here yourself, where everything is nice. You can’t tell what that bunch of crazies would be wanting you to do next thing with false whiskers and no right pants. I would tell them “I can be pushed just so far, and now I will go out to the ranche with Sour-dough for some time, where things are nice.” Well, Bill, if you will come out Jeff Tuttle will bring you Wednesday when he comes with more grub, and you will find everything nice. I have told Jeff to bring you, so no more at present, with kind regards and hoping to see you here soon. Your true friend, E.G. FLOUD. P.S. Mrs. Effie said she would broaden me out. Maybe she did, because I felt pretty flat. Ha! ha!