"He's eatin' grass," piped up old Grease-top Jamie. "Say, I can see
twenty jackasses eatin', down to the boardin' house at Blue Tent any
day, an' I don't have to pay no dollar, neither. Turn out ye'r baar!"

"Hi! Here he comes! Eat 'im up, jack! Why, that ain't no grizzly.
Sufferin' stars, he's only a little scared cinnamon."

"He's goin' after mister-old-donk, though."

"Ye-aw. Lookin' fer protection. Hey, look at the donk landin' kicks on
'is ribs. Ride 'im baar! Claw 'im up! Give 'im - " but the little
cinnamon bear reached the fence in three jumps, scaled it, and took to
the grease-wood thickets in record time in spite of the yells and
bullets of the disgruntled spectators.

Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid
jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of
a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the
whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in
the camp.

"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?"
asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.

"Why, it's Anthony Barstow! Look at the purple raiment! Man, you must
have struck pay dirt."

"Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will you
take for the donk?"