"Some friends of mine were out there three years ago," I said. "Wouldn't
it be strange if by any chance the Van Coorts--"
"Oh, I left Denver when I was fifteen."
Five dollars!
The fifteenth Jones was a doctor of divinity; the sixteenth was a
tapeworm specialist; the seventeenth was too old, the eighteenth was too
old, the nineteenth was too old--a trio of disappointing patriarchs. The
twentieth painted out black eyes; the twenty-first was a Russian who
could scarcely speak any English. He said he had changed his name from
Karaforvochristophervitch to something more suited to American
pronunciation. He seemed to think that Jones gave him a better chance. I
sincerely hope it did. He told me that all the rest of the Jones family
was in Siberia, but that he was going to bomb them out! The
twenty-second was a negro. The twenty-third--! He was a tall, youngish
man, narrow-shouldered, rather commonplace-looking, with beautiful blue
eyes, and a timid, winning, deprecatory manner. I told him I was
suffering from insomnia.
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