DYING WITH HIS BOOTS ON.

Temuka Leader, Volume 2, Issue 135, 9 April 1879, Page 3

DYING WITH HIS BOOTS ON.

(By tlie Detroit Free Press Fiend.) A few clays ago a drummer from tlie Fast was taking a nip in a saloon near the Central Depot, and lie put the proprietor up to a new dodge. It was to place on the hot stove what seemed to he an ounce hall and caitridge, but the cartridge or shell was of course empty. Yery few loungers would care to remain in the room and wait for the expected. explosion, and once out doors they would •give room to cash customers. The saloonist procured three or -four of the “ bombshells ” and the trick was a success from the start. When he had in three or four friends to aid him they could clear tlie room of loafers in one minute by the watch, and the fat on their ribs grew in thickness. ■Yesterday .-morning an ungainly-look-' ino - chap, w'ho seemed to have been frost-bitten by contract, and whose old old overcoat was too ragged to even tangle the cold, dropped into the place in a quiet way and at once tried to surround the coal-stove. The saloonist asked him if he didn’t want a hot drink, and he replied “ Oh, I guess not—l’ll thaw out by the fire an hour or two.” pretty soon a hint was given him that he could" buy a ten cent cigar for five -cents, and that reminded him that he had ;3 c ] av pipe and some tobacco in his

pocket. The saloon ist thereupon determined to scare him out, and while fixing the fire he placed one of the deceivers on the stove and leaped away, with exclamation that some fiend had conspired to assassinate him. The stranger rose up, realised the peril, and called out, “ How long ’fore the darned thing will shoot off ? ” “ You haven’t a minute to live if you don’t get out of doors 1 ” was the wild answer, as the saloonist made a dive for a rear room. “ Pete Adams,” began the stranger, as he shook off his old overcoat, “you hain’t got a tarnal thing to live for, and you might as well go under now, when coffins are cheap. Brace up, old boy, and die with your boots on — whoop ! ” Picking up a stool, he knocked the hot water can off the stove at the first blow, and he was whaling away at the beer-tables when the saloonist rushed in and screamed out “ Fly ! Fly or you’re a dead man ! ” “Welcome! King of terrors!” whooped Peter, as he tossed a table clean over the bar-keeper’s head. Three or four men came in to help secure him, but before they had succeeded in jamming him down behind the coalbox they had bumps and bruises enough to last them for a month. “ I’m the clothes-pin that never flies from nothing nor noboby ! ” remarked Peter, as they finally let him up and sought to get 20 dols. damages. He hadn’t a red cent, and when he had jumped through a back window and cantered down the alley his faded and ragged overcoat alone remained to tell that he had been there.