“Money! yes, Money!” murmured the Directors.
It seemed a word of good omen, now.
“The second thing,” resumed the new-comer, “is a Man!”
The Directors looked at each other and did not see such a being.
“The actual Superintendent of Dunderbunk is a dunderhead,” said Churm.
“Pun!” cried Sam Gwelp, waking up from a snooze.
Several of the Directors, thus instructed, started a complimentary laugh.
“Order, gentlemen! Orrderr!” said the President, severely, rapping with a paper-cutter.
“We must have a Man, not a Whiffler!” Churm continued. “And I have one in my eye.”
Everybody examined his eye.
“Would you be so good as to name him?” said Old Brummage, timidly.
He wanted to see a Man, but feared the strange creature might be dangerous.
“Richard Wade,” says Churm.
They did not know him. The name sounded forcible.
“He has been in California,” the nominator said.
A shudder ran around the green table. They seemed to see a frowzy desperado, shaggy as a bison, in a red shirt, and jackboots, hung about the waist with an assortment of six-shooters and bowie-
