but I find the people jolly and hospitable nevertheless.

At Nevada I am called upon, shortly after my arrival, by an
athletic scarlet-faced man, who politely says his name is Blaze.

"I have a little bill against you, sir," he observes.

"A bill--what for?"

"For drinks."

"Drinks?"

"Yes, sir--at my bar, I keep the well known and highly respected
coffee-house down the street."

"But, my dear sir, there is a mistake--I never drank at your bar in
my life."

"I know it, sir. That isn't the point. The point is this: I pay
out money for good liquors, and it is people's own fault if they
don't drink them. There are the liquors--do as you please about
drinking them, BUT YOU MUST PAY FOR THEM! Isn't that fair?"

His enormous body (which Puck wouldn't put a girdle around for
forty dollars) shook gleefully while I read this eminently original
bill.

Years ago Mr. Blaze was an agent of the California Stage Company.
There was a formidable and well-organized opposition to the