Each day the bums drank more and ate less. The cooks were drunk and would prepare no food. The fiery alcohol had done its work. The bums that could stand up were fighting or snapping and snarling at each other. Many lay on their backs helpless, glass-eyed and open-mouthed, while others crawled about on all fours like big spiders. No more laughter, songs or recitations. Gloom settled over the camp and Tragedy waited in the wings for his cue to stalk upon the stage.

Just when the convention was about to close for the want of able drinkers, a fresh contingent of bums arrived from over the Oregon Short Line. They were brass peddlers and had a big assortment of “solid gold” wedding rings. A big young fellow they called “Gold Tooth” seemed to be captain of the outfit. Along toward dark they finished the last of our liquor, and Gold Tooth and his tribe prepared to go into the town to make a plunge. He detailed a couple of them to take the main drag, another to make the railroad men’s boarding houses, another to the saloons.