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-continued from _ p. 12.
It was always my practice to return a book promptly to its owner. In this was I established a good credit and was favored with books more than most.

The Dime Novel
Was everywhere. Devouring everything I read them too, but they did not satisfy, they did not seem like the real thing. The bombast and exaggeration palled upon me; the pages did not ring true. Many writers of the dime novel had never seen the West. But the titles were marvelous:
Buffalo Billy, the Boy Bullwhacker, or, the Doomed Thirteen. A Strange Story of the Silver Trail.
Tucson Tour, the Bowie Bravo; or the Fire Trailers.
Kiowa Charley, The White Mustanger.

[Mus]tanger; or, Rocky Mountain Kit_s Last Scalp Hunt.
Alligator Ike; or the Secret of the Everglades ? A Tale of the Outlaws of the Okeechobee.
Buffalo Bill_s Blue Belt Brigade; or Sunflower Sam of Shasta.
Spokane Saul, The Samaritan Suspect; or The Double Twist at Camp Sahara.
And many more. Few of these did I have from schoolmates, mostly from the laborers on the ranch at Little Oak. Instinctively I recognized their spurious character. Hittell_s Grizzly Bear Hunter was instantly appreciated. It was the faithful story day by day of one who himself had fought and trapped Grizzly Bears in the Coast Range and Sierras, who knew the mountains, the hills and rivers. Here was real thrill.

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