I had been thinking all day of my strange companions of the past, both in America and England, and that accounted for my dream at night. In that dream I had invited them all to a grand supper, for I was now leading a different life. I was seated at the end of the table, which was full of fine things, and Brum, of America—the greatest beggar I had ever met—was seated at my right hand. After making them a short speech, in which I commended them on their way of living, and expressed deep regret that I had ever been cheated to follow Fame, who had led me into a treacherous swamp in which I stood up to the knees, with little power to either return or advance—after making this short speech, I invited them to help themselves, and to receive my undying friendship.

They then began to assist themselves with a hearty goodwill, all except Brum, who, to my surprise and confusion, sat motionless, glancing with scorn at his companions. "There," said he, with deep disgust; "do you call these men good beggars? See the way they rush at the food, as though they had starved themselves all day in anticipation of this meal." Saying this, he began slowly to feel the lining of his coat, and, after much trouble, took out a greasy paper parcel, placed it on his knees and began to make room for it on the table. This being done, he spread the contents before him and began to eat in a very slow and indifferent manner. As for myself, I could not eat for joy, to see all these dear faces before me, and sat smiling at one and another, laughing and sighing in turns. Sometimes I closed my eyes, and opened them again on my companions, endeared to me by a past that had few cares and worries.

By a strange coincidence, Irish Tim of London was paired with Oaklahoma Sam of America. Now the latter was a man of very few words, and he always had in hand a long dangerous-looking knife, with which he trimmed his nails, whittled sticks, or threw at cracks in the door, flies, or any other object that caught his eye. But he never allowed that knife to remain long out of his hand, for, if he threw it at a door nine feet away, he was sure to recover it at one leap, and ere it had finished trembling in the wood. When I have seen him asleep at the cattleman's office, he always had this knife between his teeth.

As I have said, Sam was a man of few words, but on the subject of war he was more talkative than an old man. His memory on that one subject was extraordinary; knowing the dates of battles, the number of their forces, names of generals and regiments, and the exact position of their entrenchments. Tim must have unwittingly broached this subject, for I was suddenly startled by hearing Oaklahoma Sam say, "This is Napoleon"; at the same time down went his knife over half an inch into the table. I had noticed from the first that Sam had scornfully pushed aside my table knife, preferring to use his own, although he had retained the use of my fork. Looking at once in that direction, I saw Tim's face turned my way, with sarcasm trembling on his lips, which only needed a little encouragement, and he would then utter one of his scathing sentences, thinking to blight at once the newly-opened flower of Sam's eloquence. "Don't look that way, look at me," cried the man from Oaklahoma, placing his left hand on Tim's shoulder, and speaking in a voice terribly quiet and firm. "I see," answered Tim, leaning back, with his two hands resting on the table—"I see; this is Napoleon." "Yes, and this is Blucher," continued Sam, taking the knife out of the table, and quickly planting it dangerously near to Tim's right hand. "And this," cried Sam, forcing his words between his teeth, and holding the knife suspended in the air, "is Wellington," and down it flashed between the two big fingers of Tim's left hand. Tim grew much paler as he removed that hand to his knee, and it was at once apparent to me that for the rest of the evening he was a spell-bound man, afraid to hazard even a civil question, for fear it would be misunderstood.

Next to Sam and Tim sat Chicago Slim, who was relating to Bony—an English beggar—his awful suffering for a week in the State of Utah, where a beggar had no other food than bread and milk confronting him on every threshold he approached, and how travelling in that part was known to all beggars as "the bread-and-milk route." Such were his awful sufferings, related to the sympathetic ears of Bony, who, in exchange, mentioned his own disappointments in England, "where," said he, "I find public-houses to be the easiest, quickest, and most profitable places." He was just about to cite instances when the Curly Kid, who had been listening to their conversation, asked Chicago Slim this question: "How is it that, when I was in Utah, the citizens did not baby me with bread and milk?" "Don't know," answered Slim, disconcerted not a little. "I went to no houses, but begged on the fly, and people had to give money or nothing. Slim, I reckon no true beggar would allow himself to be fed day after day on bread and milk." Chicago Slim did not answer, and at once fell in the estimation of Bony, who now considered him to be unworthy of further attention.

"I shall never forget," said Bony to the Curly Kid, who had by his remarks proved himself to be a beggar equal to any emergency—"I shall never forget my disgust when, one Sunday morning, I found myself accidentally in a town where public-houses are shut on the Sabbath day. I had to beg of proud, neatly-dressed church-goers, for the good-natured drinking man had not the heart to come out of doors, and you can imagine my ill success. How I wished all these people who were carrying Bibles and Prayer-books had bottles and jugs instead!"

How the hours passed, looking on these delightful companions! The first to leave was Tim, for Oaklahoma Sam had become personal about his rough beard, and wanted to shave him, there and then, with his knife; and, in fact, was sharpening it on a stone for that purpose, which I had often seen him do before. Tim civilly but firmly refused this kindness at Sam's hands, and, being afraid that he might be forced to undergo such an operation, got up, and saying "Good night, all," left the room.

Others followed, one by one, and two by two, until at last I was left alone with Brum. "Yes, and I must go too," said he; "for I intend to call on a dentist who is good for twenty-five cents." Saying which he also departed, leaving me standing alone, sad and motionless, at the end of the table.

"Here," said I, walking up the room, and looking affectionately at an empty chair—"here sat Wee Scotty; here sat Monkey Jim, and there sat Never Sweat; here sat Rags, and there sat Cinders; here sat Tim, and there sat Oaklahoma Sam." Indeed, there could be no mistake as to where Sam sat, for he had used his knife to such purpose, in describing the position of Napoleon, Blucher, and Wellington, and their rapid movements in the heat of battle, that the table-cloth was all in rags, and that part of the table was in splinters for nearly two feet square.

I stood undecided, for I had tasted their life, and I knew that it was after all far better than the chained life I was now leading. In an instant I made up my mind to follow Brum, and again enjoy the open-air camp fires, and saunterings in strange towns, and lying under shady trees in quiet woods, beside fresh springs. But I had scarcely moved when the room turned into a stone cell, and the wooden door became steel, and thick iron bars crossed the window. It must have been the strong feeling, incident to such a change, that made me wake.

I found myself sleeping alone in a small, poorly-furnished cottage, a stranger newly arrived in a strange village; and I had to admit, as a man in possession of all his senses, that I had far less cause to be happy than when I was a nameless wanderer with Brum in Louisiana, with Australian Red in Michigan, or cabined with Wee Scotty and Oaklahoma Sam on the cattleship Tritonia.

XXXVI