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The Luck of Roaring Camp and Other Tales by Bret Harte
page 46 of 522 (08%)
There was an awkward pause. The lady passengers moved closer to each
other; the Washoe husband looked abstractedly at the fire, and the
tall man apparently turned his eyes inward for self-support at this
emergency. But Miggles's laugh, which was very infectious, broke the
silence.

"Come," she said briskly, "you must be hungry. Who'll bear a hand to
help me get tea?"

She had no lack of volunteers. In a few moments Yuba Bill was engaged
like Caliban in bearing logs for this Miranda; the expressman was
grinding coffee on the veranda; to myself the arduous duty of slicing
bacon was assigned; and the Judge lent each man his good-humored and
voluble counsel. And when Miggles, assisted by the Judge and our
Hibernian "deck-passenger," set the table with all the available
crockery, we had become quite joyous, in spite of the rain that beat
against the windows, the wind that whirled down the chimney, the two
ladies who whispered together in the corner, or the magpie, who
uttered a satirical and croaking commentary on their conversation from
his perch above. In the now bright, blazing fire we could see that the
walls were papered with illustrated journals, arranged with feminine
taste and discrimination. The furniture was extemporized and adapted
from candle-boxes and packing-cases, and covered with gay calico or
the skin of some animal. The armchair of the helpless Jim was an
ingenious variation of a flour-barrel. There was neatness, and even a
taste for the picturesque, to be seen in the few details of the long,
low room.

The meal was a culinary success. But more, it was a social triumph,--
chiefly, I think, owing to the rare tact of Miggles in guiding the
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