tarries about, some oneasy an' anxious as to what kyards falls next.
At last Enright p'ints out on the trail of his remarks ag'in.

"'It is with pain an' mortification,' he says--an' yere he fixes his
eye some hard an' delib'rate on a young tenderfoot named French,
who's been lost from the States somethin' like six months--'it is
with pain an' mortification, I says, that I notes for a week past
our young friend an' townsman, Willyum French, payin' marked an'
ondiscreet attentions to Benson Annie, a female person whom we all
respects. At all times, day an' night, when he could escape his
dooties as book-keep for the stage company, he has pitched camp in
her s'ciety. Wolfville has been shocked, an' a pure lady
compromised. Standin' as we-alls does in the light of a parent to
this pore young female, we have determined the wrong must be made
right, an' Mister French must marry the girl. I have submitted these
yere views to Benson Annie, an' she concurs. I've took the trouble
to bring a gospel-sharp over from Tucson to do the marryin', an'
I've set the happy event for to-night, to conclood with a blow-out
in the dance-hall at my expense. We will, of course, yereby lose
Benson Annie in them industrial walks she now adorns, for I pauses
to give Mister French a p'inter; the sentiments of this camp is
ag'in a married female takin' in washin'. Not to play it too low
down on Mister French, who, while performin' a private dooty, is
also workin' for a public good, I heads a subscription with fifty
dollars for a present for the bride. I'd say in closin' that if I
was Mister French I wouldn't care to object to this union. The lady
is good-lookin', the subscription is cash, an' in the present heated
condition of the public mind, an' with the heart of the camp set on
this weddin', I wouldn't be responsible if he does. Now, gents,
who'll follow my fifty dollars with fifty more? Barkeep, do your