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If Clemens lacked something of Artemus Ward's whimsical delicacy and of Josh Billings's tested human wisdom, he surpassed all of his competitors in a certain rude, healthy masculinity, the humor of river and mining-camp and printing-office, where men speak without censorship.
On the sixteenth of June Mr. Rollin Billings entered his home at Westcote very much later than usual, and stealing upstairs, like a thief in the night, he undressed and dropped into bed. In two minutes he was asleep, and it was no wonder, for by that time it was five minutes after three in the morning, and Mr. Billings's usual bedtime was ten o'clock.
He wore a shabby slouch hat, his coat was old and weather-stained, but he rode a spirited horse. "Here, what's all this row about?" he asked in quick, sharp tones. "Keep out o' this mix," said Shorty, without looking around. "'Tain't none o' your business. This is our party." With that he made a snatch at Billings's collar to jerk him out of the way.
Truscott scanned the superscriptions. Both were addressed to her husband. One was postmarked Fort Hays. "This is the one Jack will open first," she said to her friend. "I don't know whom the other comes from, but this is news from the regiment. It is Mr. Billings's writing, and Jack is always eager for news from him." "Mr.
We have here discussed one special feature of Mr Billings's work, on account of the remarks which it suggests; but it is only right to mention, before parting with it, that it contains engravings of every thing that is remarkable in the ancient architecture of Scotland, whether it be called civil and baronial or ecclesiastical.
When Shorty got his breath he sputtered: "Great Jehosephat, you didn't let me git more'n a spoonful. But where are the boys?" "Old Jeff Billings's got 'em down at Zeke Wiggins's hash-foundry feedin' 'em, so's he kin toll 'em off into another rijimint." "Old Billings agin," shouted Shorty in a rage. "Where's the place? Show it to me. But wait a minute till I run back and git my pardner."
And his lips closed upon a cigar, while at the same time the handkerchief was whisked away from his eyes. He found himself in Mr. Billings's library. "Your nose betrays your taste, Mr. Johnson," said the lady, "and I am not hard-hearted enough to deprive you of the indulgence. Here are matches."
He hastily scratched off the following note on a piece of wrapping paper, folded it up, and sent secretly one of his boys on a run with it: "Dear Jeff: Found you a first-class Orderly. It's Shorty, of my old regiment. He's in Billings's clutches, and in trouble. Send down a detail at once for Shorty Elliott, Co. Q, 200th Ind. Rush. Yours, Jim."
"Great Jehosephat," said Shorty, "if it ain't old Billings, masqueradin' in his Sons o' Malty rig." He made another leap or two, clapped his hand on Billings's shoulder, and shoved the muzzle of his revolver against the mask and demanded: "Halt and surrender, you barrel-headed, splayfooted son of a sardine. Come along with me, or I'll blow that whole earthquake rig offen you."
I should have visited you before. By the way, I understand you have picked up here a man belonging to my brigade to the 200th Ind. Where is he?" Billings's face clouded. "Yes, we have a man who claimed to belong to that regiment a straggler, who hadn't any papers to show. I had no idea whether he was telling the truth.
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