A '49er walked into the saloon at Bloody Gulch.  He'd been prospecting for 
more than a year.  
	"Hey!  Y'got any wimmen around here?"
	"Nope," the bartender replied, "But there's George in the back room."
	"I don't go for that kind of thing," the prospector scowled.  He
downed his drink and left disgustedly.
A few months passed before the miner found his way down the mountain again.
He stumbled into the tavern and asked the bartender, "Any wimmen pass through
this part of town?"
	"Nope.  Nary a one.  But we still got George in the back room."
	Angry, the miner shouted, "I told you I don't go for that kind of 
thing," and turned on his heel and left.
	Within a year he came back from his mine again.  With a wild look on
his face he re-entered the saloon.  Leaning over the bar he whispered to the
bartender, "If I was to go into the back room with George, how many people
'round here would know?"
	"Oh," the bartender said, scratching his chin, "'bout seven, I guess."
	"Seven!?"
	"Yep.  You, me, George, and the four men holdin' him down.  You see,
George don't go for that kind of thing neither."
