At a score of such casual meetings I was thus presented, for he seemed
to know quite almost every one and at times there would be a group of
natives about us on the pavement. Twice we went into "saloons," as
they rather pretentiously style their public houses, where Cousin
Egbert would stand the drinks for all present, not omitting each time
to present me formally to the bar-man. In all these instances I was at
once asked what I thought of their town, which was at first rather
embarrassing, as I was confident that any frank disclosure of my
opinion, being necessarily hurried, might easily be misunderstood. I
at length devised a conventional formula of praise which, although
feeling a frightful fool, I delivered each time thereafter.
Thus we progressed the length of their commercial centre, the
incidents varying but little.
"Hello, Sour-dough, you old shellback! When did you come off the
trail?"
"Just got in. My lands! but it's good to be back. Billy, shake hands
with my friend Colonel Ruggles."
I mean to say, the persons were not all named "Billy," that being used
only by way of illustration. Sometimes they would be called "Doc" or
"Hank" or "Al" or "Chris." Nor was my companion invariably called
"shellback." "Horned-toad" and "Stinging-lizard" were also epithets
much in favour with his friends.
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