"Once a lady sitting at a table and playing a game kind of like
pushpin told me to go into a closet that she called Number 3. I
went in and shut the door, and the blamed thing lit itself up. I
set down on a stool before a shelf and waited. Thinks I, `This is
a private dining-room.' But no waiter never came. When I got to
sweating good and hard, I goes out again.
" `Did you get what you wanted?' says she.
" `No, ma'am,' says I. `Not a bite.'
" `Then there's no charge,' says she.
" `Thanky, ma'am,' says I, and I takes up the trail again.
"By and by I thinks I'll shed etiquette; and I picks up one of
them boys with blue clothes and yellow buttons in front, and he
leads me to what he calls the caffay breakfast room. And the
first thing I lays my eyes on when I go in is that boy that had
shot Pedro Johnson. He was setting all alone at a little table,
hitting a egg with a spoon like he was afraid he'd break it.
"I takes the chair across the table from him; and he looks
insulted and makes a move like he was going to get up.
" `Keep still, son,' says I. `You're apprehended, arrested, and
in charge of the Texas authorities.
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