"
"Thunderation, no! Nobody but country jakes call it a cell," said
Anderson in fine scorn.
The three prisoners scowled at him so fiercely and snarled so
vindictively when they asked him if they were to be starved to death,
that poor Anderson hurried home and commanded his wife to pack "a baskit
of bread and butter an' things fer the prisoners." It was nine o'clock
before he could make up his mind to venture back to the calaboose with
his basket. He spent the intervening hours in telling Rosalie and Bonner
about the shocking incident at the jail and in absorbing advice from the
clear-headed young man from Boston.
"I'd like to go with you to see those fellows, Mr. Crow," was Bonner's
rueful lament. "But the doctor says I must be quiet until this
confounded thing heals a bit. Together, I think we could bluff the whole
story out of those scoundrels."
"Oh, never you fear," said the marshal; "I'll learn all there is to be
learnt. You jest ask Alf Reesling what kind of a pumper I am."
"Who is Alf Reesling?"
"Ain't you heerd of him in Boston? Why, every temperance lecturer that
comes here says he's the biggest drunkard in the world. I supposed his
reputation had got to Boston by this time. He's been sober only once in
twenty-five years."
"Is it possible?"
"That was when his wife died. He said he felt so good it wasn't
necessary to get drunk.
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