Mr. Grile hastened to proffer a paper of tobacco, which disappeared
like a wisp of oats drawn into a threshing machine.

"I was one among the first who--"

Mr. Grile hit him on the head with a paving-stone by way of changing
the topic.

"Young man," continued he, "do you feel this bommy breeze? There
isn't a climit in the world--"

This melancholy relic broke down in a fit of coughing. No sooner had
he recovered than he leaped into the air, making a frantic clutch at
something, but apparently without success.

"Dern it," hissed he, "there goes my teeth; blowed out again, by
hokey!"

A passing cloud of dust hid him for a moment from view, and when he
reappeared he was an altered man; a paroxysm of asthma had doubled
him up like a nut-cracker.

"Excuse me," he wheezed, "I'm subject to this; caught it crossin'
the Isthmus in '49. As I was a-sayin', there's no country in the
world that offers such inducements to the immygrunt as Californy.
With her fertile soil, her unrivalled climit, her magnificent bay,
and the rest of it, there is enough for all."

This venerable pioneer picked a fragmentary biscuit from the street
and devoured it. Mr. Grile thought this had gone on about long