--mumbles to himself, 'Female'; changes them around--mumbles, 'Six years
old'; changes them this way and that--again mumbles: 'Five teeth
--one a-coming--Catholic--yarn--cotton--kip--damn that kip.' Then he
straightens up and gazes toward heaven, and plows his hands through his
hair--plows and plows, muttering, 'Damn that kip!' Then he stands up and
frowns, and begins to tally off his clues on his fingers--and gets stuck
at the ring-finger. But only just a minute--then his face glares all up
in a smile like a house afire, and he straightens up stately and
majestic, and says to the crowd, 'Take a lantern, a couple of you, and go
down to Injun Billy's and fetch the child--the rest of you go 'long home
to bed; good-night, madam; good-night, gents.' And he bows like the
Matterhorn, and pulls out for the tavern. That's his style, and the
Only--scientific, intellectual--all over in fifteen minutes--no poking
around all over the sage-brush range an hour and a half in a mass-meeting
crowd for him, boys--you hear me!"

"By Jackson, it's grand!" said Ham Sandwich. "Wells-Fargo, you've got
him down to a dot. He ain't painted up any exacter to the life in the
books. By George, I can just see him--can't you, boys?"

"You bet you! It's just a photograft, that's what it is."

Ferguson was profoundly pleased with his success, and grateful. He sat
silently enjoying his happiness a little while, then he murmured, with a
deep awe in his voice,

"I wonder if God made him?"

There was no response for a moment; then Ham Sandwich said, reverently: