The new school-teacher at Lucky Star City was the little woman who had arrived with the Native Daughters at the Santa Barbara hotel, and would have been swamped by them had not Angela taken pity on her.  No wonder it had been an effort to label his impression, for no woman had a face worth the name of face for Nick when Angela’s was to be seen.  But perhaps Miss Wilkins had not had the same difficulty in disentangling him from among her impressions of the past, for she had flashed upon him a glance, bright with interest, before casting down her eyes decorously and passing on.

“Here comes the Dook now,” remarked the landlord of the Eureka.  “By the look of him I guess his country-man wouldn’t part with anything ’cept a drink.  If he keeps clear of the liquor belt, as a general thing, it’s only because his fee-nan-shel situation don’t run to it.  I’ll introduce you.”

A man approached, wearing a shambling air of discouragement, until he saw that he was under observation; whereupon his muscles tightened, and he pulled himself together, straightening his narrow shoulders and throwing back his small head.

“Mr. Nickson Hilliard, this is Mr. Montagu Jerrold, alias the Dook, a blarsted Britisher,” announced Green affably.  “Dook, this is Mr. Nickson Hilliard, who wants to meet you, the Lord knows why; late owner of Lucky Star gusher and the whitest man and the biggest man we’ve got in this section.  His other name is High-pockets, as I guess you hev heard, and it might be Full-pockets too, wuthout steerin’ wide o’ the mark.”

Nick put out his hand to the newcomer who had a haughty beak of a nose, little forehead, and less chin.  Wretched bit of flotsam and jetsam on the sands of life, one keen look into his self-satisfied light eyes was enough to learn the secret of his failure; failure which, go where he would, seek as he might, could never be turned into success.  Nick’s heart pitied the man, while it shut involuntarily against him.

Montagu Jerrold crooked his elbow and lifted the brown strong hand of High-pockets to a level with his own weak chin, before he deigned to shake it.  He did so then with an air, and a drawled “How d’y’ do?” which was the most English thing that Nick had ever met with off the stage.

“Little brute, I’d like to kick him if he wasn’t such a duffer,” was Nick’s reluctant thought, for he had wanted to be favourably impressed by the Dook.  If this were really anything like an English duke, give him a crossing-sweeper!  But he must not be too hasty in his generalization.  He was unhappily sure that Mrs. May’s position in her far-off world (world for which he was deemed unworthy) associated her with dukes, earls, barons, counts, and all sorts of titled anachronisms of every nation.  Repulsive as this draggled specimen appeared, it might know something worth his, Nick Hilliard’s, while to learn; and he was not going to give up because of first impressions.  He had not met Montagu Jerrold