hidden talents as singers, and they would rise from their places, remove their hats, open their bearded mouths, and burst into song.  An antiquarian who had washed gold in ’49 and done nothing the rest of his life save grow a prodigious set of pure white whiskers, sprang from his place and did a hoe-down that ravished the beholders.  Thrice he was compelled to return to the floor; and in the end his performance was only stopped by an attack of sciatica.  Two strong men carried him back to his chair and wept over him, and there was another drink all around.

In this scene of universal joy there were two places of shadow.  For at the rear end of the room, almost out of reach of the lantern-light, sat Haw-Haw Langley and Mac Strann.  The more Haw-Haw Langley drank the more cadaverous grew his face, until in the end it was almost as solemn as that of Pale Annie himself; as for Mac Strann, he seldom drank at all.

A full hour had just elapsed since either of them spoke, yet Haw-Haw Langley said, as if in answer to a remark:  “He’s heard too much about you, Mac.  He ain’t no such fool as to come to Elkhead.”

“He ain’t had time,” answered the giant.

“Ain’t had time?  All these days?”

“Wait till the dog gets well.  He’ll follow the dog to Elkhead.”

“Why, Mac, the trail’s been washed out long ago.  That wind the other day would of knocked out any trail less’n a big waggon.”

“It won’t wash out the trail for that dog,” said Mac Strann calmly.

“Well,” snarled Haw-Haw, “I got to be gettin’ back home pretty soon.  I ain’t rollin’ in coin the way you are, Mac.”

The other returned no answer, but let his eyes rove vacantly over the room, and since his head was turned the other way, Haw-Haw Langley allowed a sneer to twist at his lips for a moment.

“If I had the price,” he said, “we’d have another drink.”

“I ain’t drinkin’,” answered the giant monotonously.

“Then I’ll go up and bum one off’n Pale Annie.  About time he come through with a little charity.”

So he unfurled his length and stalked through the crowd up to the bar.  Here he leaned and confidentially whispered in the ear of Pale Annie.

“Partner, I been sprinklin’ dust for a long time in here, and there ain’t been any reward.  I’m dry, Annie.”

Pale Annie regarded him with grave disapproval.

“My friend,” he said solemnly, “liquor is the real root of all evil.  For my part, I quench my thirst with water.  They’s a tub over there in the corner with a dipper handy.  Don’t mention it.”

“I didn’t thank you,” said Haw-Haw Langley furiously.  “Damn a tight-wad, say I!”

The long hand of Pale Annie curled affectionately around the neck of an empty bottle.

“I didn’t quite gather what you said?” he remarked courteously, and leaned across the bar—­within striking distance.

“I’ll tell you later,” remarked Haw-Haw sullenly, and turned his shoulder to the bar.