Old Houston’s home-camp, that a-way, is at a hamlet named Washin’ton down on the Brazos. It’s thar he squanders the heft of his leesure when not back of the game as President over to Austin. Thar’s a clause in the constitootion which, while pitchin’ onto Austin as the public’s home-ranche or capitol, permits the President in the event of perils onforeseen or invasions or sech, to round up the archives an’ move the capitol camp a whole lot. Old Houston, eager to be great, seizes onto this yere tenet. “I’ll jest sort o’ order the capitol to come down, yere where I live at,” says Old Houston, “an’ tharby call the waverin’ attention of the Lone Star public to who I be.” As leadin’ up to this atrocity an’ to come within the constitootion, Old Houston allows that Austin is menaced by Comanches. Shore, it ain’t menaced none; Austin would esteem the cleanin’ out of that entire Comanche tribe as the labors of a holiday. But it fills into Old Houston’s hand to make this bluff as a excuse. An’ with that, he issues the order to bring the whole gov’ment layout down to where he lives. No, as I tells you-all before, Austin ain’t in no more danger of Comanches than she is of j’inin’ the church. Troo, these yere rannikaboo savages does show up in paint an’ feathers over across the Colorado once or twice; but beyond a whoop or two an’ a little permiscus shootin’ into town which nobody minds, them vis’tations don’t count. To give you-all gents a idee how little is deemed of Comanches by them Texas forefathers, let me say a word of Bill Spence who keeps a store in Austin. Bill’s addin’ up Virg Horne’s accounts one afternoon in his books. “One pa’r of yaller-top, copper-toe boots for Virg, joonior, three dollars; one red cal’co dress for Missis Virg, two dollars,” goes on Bill. At this epock Bill hears a yowl; glancin’ out of the winder, he counts a couple of hundred Injuns who’s proselytin’ about over on t’other side of the river. Bill don’t get up none; he jests looks annoyed on account of that yellin’ puttin’ him out in his book-keepin’. As a bullet from them savages comes singin’ in the r’ar door an’ buries itse’f in a ham, Bill even gets incensed. “Hiram,” he calls to his twelve-year old son, who’s down cellar drawin’ red-eye for a customer; “Hiram, you-all take pop’s rifle, raise the hindsight for three hundred yards, an’ reprove them hostiles. Aim low, Hiram, an’ if you fetches one, pop’ll give you a seegyar an’ let you smoke it yourse’f.” Bill goes back to Virg Horne’s account, an’ Hiram after slammin’ away with Bill’s old Hawkins once or twice comes in an’ gets his seegyar. No; Old Houston does wrong when he flings forth this yere ukase about movin’ the capitol. Austin, even if a gent does have to dodge a arrer or duck a bullet as he prosecootes his daily tasks, is as safe as a camp-meetin’. When Old Houston makes the order, one of his Brazos pards reemonstrates with him.