A TRAMP ABROAD By Mark Twain

but we were disappointed. Still, we were far from

being disheartened, for there was a considerable area

which we had not thoroughly searched; we were satisfied he

was there, somewhere, so we resolved to wait over a day at

Leuk and come back and get him.

Then we sat down to polish off the perspiration and

arrange about what we would do with him when we got him.

Harris was for contributing him to the British Museum;

but I was for mailing him to his widow. That is the difference

between Harris and me: Harris is all for display, I am

all for the simple right, even though I lose money by it.

Harris argued in favor of his proposition against mine,

I argued in favor of mine and against his. The discussion

warmed into a dispute; the dispute warmed into a quarrel.

I finally said, very decidedly:

“My mind is made up. He goes to the widow.”

Harris answered sharply:

“And MY mind is made up. He goes to the Museum.”

I said, calmly:

“The museum may whistle when it gets him.”

Harris retorted:

“The widow may save herself the trouble of whistling,

for I will see that she never gets him.”

After some angry bandying of epithets, I said:

“It seems to me that you are taking on a good many airs

about these remains. I don’t quite see what YOU’VE got

to say about them?”

“I? I’ve got ALL to say about them. They’d never have

been thought of if I hadn’t found their opera-glass. The

corpse belongs to me, and I’ll do as I please with him.”

I was leader of the Expedition, and all discoveries

achieved by it naturally belonged to me. I was entitled

to these remains, and could have enforced my right;

but rather than have bad blood about the matter,

I said we would toss up for them. I threw heads and won,

but it was a barren victory, for although we spent all

the next day searching, we never found a bone. I cannot

imagine what could ever have become of that fellow.

The town in the valley is called Leuk or Leukerbad.

We pointed our course toward it, down a verdant slope

which was adorned with fringed gentians and other flowers,

and presently entered the narrow alleys of the outskirts

and waded toward the middle of the town through liquid

“fertilizer.” They ought to either pave that village or

organize a ferry.

Harris’s body was simply a chamois-pasture; his person

was populous with the little hungry pests; his skin,

when he stripped, was splotched like a scarlet-fever patient’s;

so, when we were about to enter one of the Leukerbad inns,

and he noticed its sign, “Chamois Hotel,” he refused

to stop there. He said the chamois was plentiful enough,

without hunting up hotels where they made a specialty of it.

I was indifferent, for the chamois is a creature that will

neither bite me nor abide with me; but to calm Harris,

we went to the Ho^tel des Alpes.

At the table d’ho^te, we had this, for an incident.

A very grave man–in fact his gravity amounted to solemnity,

and almost to austerity–sat opposite us and he was

“tight,” but doing his best to appear sober. He took up

a CORKED bottle of wine, tilted it over his glass awhile,

then set it out of the way, with a contented look, and went

on with his dinner.

Presently he put his glass to his mouth, and of course

found it empty. He looked puzzled, and glanced furtively

and suspiciously out of the corner of his eye at a

benignant and unconscious old lady who sat at his right.

Shook his head, as much as to say, “No, she couldn’t have

done it.” He tilted the corked bottle over his glass again,

meantime searching around with his watery eye to see

if anybody was watching him. He ate a few mouthfuls,

raised his glass to his lips, and of course it was

still empty. He bent an injured and accusing side-glance

upon that unconscious old lady, which was a study to see.

She went on eating and gave no sign. He took up his glass