cattle-boat. I don't care a rap which. You're all right.
Can't bluff you, eh?"

And, further bluffing Mr. Wrenn, he suggested to him a
lodging-house for his two nights in Boston. "Tell the clerk
that red-headed Trubiggs sent you, and he'll give you the best
in the house. Tell him you're a friend of mine."

When Mr. Wrenn had gone Mr. Trubiggs remarked to some one, by
telephone, "'Nother sucker coming, Blaugeld. Now don't try to
do me out of my bit or I'll cap for some other joint,
understand? Huh? Yuh, stick him for a thirty-five-cent bed.
S' long."

The caravan of Trubiggs's cattlemen who left for Portland by
night steamer, Friday, was headed by a bulky-shouldered boss, who
wore no coat and whose corduroy vest swung cheerfully open. A
motley troupe were the cattlemen--Jews with small trunks,
large imitation-leather valises and assorted bundles, a stolid
prophet-bearded procession of weary men in tattered derbies and
sweat-shop clothes.

There were Englishmen with rope-bound pine chests. A
lewd-mouthed American named Tim, who said he was a hatter out of
work, and a loud-talking tough called Pete mingled with a
straggle of hoboes.

The boss counted the group and selected his confidants for the
trip to Portland--Mr. Wrenn and a youth named Morton.