The sergeant-feller looked dubiously at the rest, Gentlemanly he looked like, a nice young feller With his little black moustache and his thin, brown face, He wouldn’t do anything mean. It would be all right. Another man was paring his nails with a knife, His face was merry and reckless⁠—nice feller, too, Feller to stand you a drink and talk gay with the girls, Not anybody to hurt you or twist your wrist. They were all nice fellers except for the mountaineer.

They were searching him now, but they didn’t do it mean. He babbled to them all through it. “Now boys, now boys, You’re making a big mistake, boys. They all know me, They all know Charley the peddler.” The sergeant looked Disgusted now⁠—wonder why. Go ahead and look, You’ll never find it⁠—Sophy⁠—bottle of scent⁠—