Now Elder Brown was not in a
jesting humor. Positively he was in the worst humor possible. The
result was that before many minutes passed the old man was swinging
several of the crowd by their collars, and breaking the peace of the
city. A policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party, upon
whom the elder's pluck had made a favorable impression, would have run
the old man into the barracks. The crowd, however, drew him laughingly
into the saloon and to the bar. The reaction was too much for his
half-rallied senses. He yielded again. The reviving liquor passed his
lips. Gloom vanished. He became one of the boys.
The company into which Elder Brown had fallen was what is known as
"first-class." To such nothing is so captivating as an adventure out
of the common run of accidents. The gaunt countryman, with his
battered hat and claw-hammer coat, was a prize of an extraordinary
nature. They drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and
polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place, and
plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him. The
fun increased.
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