' 'Preachin' at a
camp-meetin',' says I, 'an' passin' round a hat arter it.' 'No,' says
he, 'I seen 'im jest where he belonged. He was tendin' a little bar, on
a S'n' Lor'nce steamboat. He was settin' on a big stool in the middle of
'is bottles, where he could reach 'em all without droppin' from his
roost, an' when his customers was out he was a peekin' into a little
lookin'-glass, as stood aside of 'im, an' a combin' out his baird.'
'That settles it,' says I, 'you've seen 'im, an no mistake.' 'Then,'
says he, 'I called 'im 'General,' an' he looked kind a skeered, an' says
'e to me, 'Mum's the word! Crooked Valley an' Air Line is played out,
an' I'm workin' up a corner in Salt River,'--laughin', an' offerin' to
treat.'
"I wonder how he came in such a place as that," says Mrs. Snow.
"That's the funniest part on't," responds Jim. "He found an old friend
on the boat, as was much of a gentleman,--an old friend as was dressed
within an inch of his life, an' sold the tickets."
"Phipps!" "Phipps!" shout half a dozen voices, and a boisterous laugh
goes around the group.
"Ye've guessed right the fust time," Jim continues, "an' the
gentlemanlest clerk, an' the poplarest man as ever writ names in a book,
an' made change on a counter, with no end o' rings an' hankercher-pins,
an' presents of silver mugs, an' rampin' resolootions of admirin'
passingers.
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