class="smcap">Tom. Vermont, isn't she lovely?

Vermont. The widder?

Tom. The widow! No: the other.

Vermont. Mosey?

Tom. Miss Fairlee,—Agnes Fairlee,—Agnes,—what a name! So poetical! Agnes,—so sweet!

Vermont. Spell it, Tom: there's nothing like lengthened sweetness long drawn out.

Tom. Old man, you're laughing at me. You needn't: I'm all right.

Vermont. Not in love?

Tom. Not a bit of it.

Vermont. Ain't goin' back on the comforts of life?

Tom. No, old man; but when that—

Vermont. Agnes (smacks his lips) does taste kinder sweet.

Tom. When Miss Fairlee placed her little hand in my arm, and looked up into my face, I felt as though I would like to die for her.

Vermont. Must have been a killing look.

Tom. And when she spoke, the queerest feeling—There it is again. Old man, I feel sick.

Jube. Sick? Don't you do it. Dar ain't a fusycian widdin fourteen miles.

Win-Kye. Me bling pillee man velly quick.

Vermont. All the doctor he wants is in the cabin. Tom, you're talking like a blamed fool; but it's jest nater: when a woman touches the fancy of a man, it's like the wind among the timber. The little ones sway and rustle, and seem mighty tickled; but the big brawny trees groan and tremble as though their last day had come. Shake yourself together, boy, jump into your hole, a good steady diet of pick and shovel is a sure cure for love or bile.

Jerden (speaking as he comes down to stage). Morning, mates: where can I find one Tom Carew?

Tom. I answer to that name, stranger.

Jerden. Ah! I'm in luck. They say you're the best informed miner in these parts. I'm looking for a man who came from the East,—Richard Fairlee.

Tom. Don't know him, stranger.

Vermont. Names don't count here. Most of us is baptized and rechristened when we arrive. What does he look like?

Jube. Has he got all his arms and legs, years and eyes?

Win-Kye. Any strawbelly marks, John?

Jerden. I have traced him by many aliases. How he looks now, I cannot say; but when he left the East he looked like this.

Tom. A good-looking fellow. I don't know him.

Jerden. Don't belong in this camp.

Jube. No, sir: dat air feller ain't got no beard, an' has light complex, jes' like Win-Kye.

Win-Kye. No Chinaman; 'Melican man plaps, Ilishman plaps; no Chinaman.

Jerden. Well, there he is; and he's wanted by a bank.

Tom. Robbery?

Jerden (C.). Forgery, twenty thousand dollars.