THEY WERE FROM MISSOURI
A Section of That State's Population Discovered at Spirit Lake.
The Summer Resort Benefactor and His Functions - He Will Have a Special Crown When He Dies - The Omaha Crowd.
Hotel Orleans, Spirit Lake, Ia. Aug. 15 (Special Correspondence)- Crandall's Immediately across the lake from the Hotel Orleans, has the reputation of being a popular place of resort, and your correspondent therefore went over for the purpose of finding what city worn mortals sought its shades and beaches.
The beach was there all right enough, and so were a dozen brown babies, who were paying a slight tribute to custom in the ways of clothes, but who could not be said to be outdoing the law in that regard. These blessed innocents appeared to be in process of reincarnation. They were rapidly evolving into ducks. Drowning appeared to be a physical impossibility. They had scooped up the mud and formed a miniature harbor, and in this they were floating tiny boats, while one of them simulated a water spout by filling an enormous watering.
Not At All Slow.
Pot and pouring it upon the unfortunate fleet. Incidentally several quarts of the dirty flind went on the tow head of a boy with bow legs, but this discomfited neither the babe who poured the mud nor the babe who received it.
As even very fastidious folks relax at summer resorts your correspondent thought nothing of this. Besides, babes will be babes. So she went on, still expecting to find neighbors and friends in the midst of those oaken groves.
The hotel building with its several annexes is situated some way up the beach, and with the entirely innocent desire to accumulate facts or some apology for them, a door was tried. But a resentful hand held it fast on the. For a minute I was seized with a that I had intruded into the privacy dressing room. But no, was merely the dining room. The force with which the door was held fast demonstrated the fact that the folk at Crandall's know how to pretect their commissary stores - which is one of the first requisites of a successful campaign.
Just then a girl who was making pink paper flowers appeared on the scene. There was something in her freckles, in her good nature, in her homely prettiness that presented an idea, or a type, or a place, but the solution evaded me, as such things will. But I knew that girl was just as typical as a wild girl from Australia, only I couldn't remember where she belonged. When she was asked where the office was she went to show the way - and there was something in that act that belonged to the type. Her smile was saucy, though she probably didn't know it, and her freckles had a cheerful way of gleaming out, like stars from a little sky - and it all belonged to that type, whatever it was.
In the office, there was profound quiet - quiet as if a funeral were in process.
But there was no funeral. There was only a game of poker.
Four men, with their trousers tucked in their boots, sat solemnly around a deal table. They had their hats on, their beards were long, and their eyes were the color of buttermilk.
The reporter paused. She felt a bit timid. Something in the air seemed - well, it seemed different. It wasn't exactly sulphurous, but it was certainly different.
"I beg your pardon," I said, "but would you be kind enough to tell me, if it isn't any trouble at all, and won't interrupt your game, whether or ot there are any Omaha people staying with you?"
There was a silence. It might even be designated, as it frequently is in tales of the plains, "an ugly silence." Three of the men in turn looked at each other. Then they all looked at the fourth. After a deliberation which was certainly impressive, one of them said:
"There ain't."
Nothing but devotion to duty made me remain. But there is nothing like dying at your post.
"Perhaps, then," I went on, "there may be some one here from Council Bluffs?"
Again three of the men looked at the fourth. This fourth man had longer whiskers than the rest, and his boots came up higher. Possibly that was why the other three deferred to him. Again he said with that sepulchral accent:
"There hain't."
"Ah!" said I with a sort of English acent that I always take to when I am frightened- perhaps because I feel that my oppressors will hear in fancy the roar of the British lion behind me - "I should be awfully glad to know whether or not you are camping out? Do you have tents?"
Three men looked at the fourth. The fourth put his hand into his boot top. Was it a flea - or a bowie knife? I got hold of the door knob and waited. The silence deepened for two seconds. Then the fourth man said:
"None ain't got no tents."
The hand was withdrawn from the boot top without any accomplishment, so I ventured one more question.
I can't tell what made me adopt the peculiar phraseology that I did. I never said anything like that before. It was just some occult action of the brain. It spontaneous tribe to the fitness.
