“It’s all right, gentlemen,” said the doctor—­“as fine a boy as I ever saw.”

“My treat for the rest of the evening, boys,” said the barkeeper, hurriedly crowding glasses and bottles on the bar.  “Her,” “Him,” “Him, Junior,” “Buffle,” “Doc.,” and “Old Rockershop,” as some happily inspired miner dubbed little Muggy, were drunk successively.

The door opened again, and in walked Allan Berryn.  Glancing quickly about, he soon distinguished Buffle.  He grasped his hand, looked him steadily in the eye, and exclaimed: 

“Buffle, you—­”

He was a Harvard graduate, and a fine talker, was Allan Berryn, but, when he had spoken two words, he somehow forgot the remainder of the speech he had made up on his way over; his silence for two or three seconds seemed of hours to every man who looked on his face, so that it was a relief to all when he gave Buffle a mighty hug, and then precipitately retreated.

Buffle looked sheepish, and shook himself.

“That feller can outhug a grizzly,” said he.  “Boys,” he continued, “that chap’s been buckin’ agin luck sence he’s been in the diggin’s, an’ is clean busted.  But his luck begun to turn this evening, an’ here’s what goes for keepin’ the ball a-rollin’.  Here’s my ante;” saying which, he laid his old hat on the bar, took out his buckskin bag of gold-dust, and emptied it into the hat.

Bags came out of pockets all around, and were either entirely emptied, or had their contents largely diminished by knife-blades, which scooped out the precious dust, and dropped it into the hat.

“There,” said Buffle, looking into the hat, “I reckon that’ll kerry ’em back to their folks.”

For a fortnight the saloon was as quiet as a well-ordered prayer-meeting, and it was solemnly decided that no fight with pistols should take place nearer than The Bend, which was, at least, a mile from where the new resident’s cradle was located.

One pleasant, quiet evening, Buffle, who frequently passed an hour with Berryn on the latter’s woodpile, was seen approaching the saloon with a very small bundle, which, nevertheless, occupied both his arms and all his attention.

“It, by thunder,” said one.  So it was; a wee, pink-faced, blue-eyed, fuzzy-topped little thing, with one hand frantically clutching three hairs of Buflle’s beard.

“See the little thing pull,” said one.

“Is that all the nose they hev at fust?” asked another, seriously.

“Can’t yer take them pipes out uv yer mouths when the baby’s aroun’?” indignantly demanded another.

Little Muggy edged his way through the crowd, threw away his quid of tobacco, took the baby from Buffle, and kissed it a dozen times.

“I’m goin’ home, fellers,” said Muggy, finally.  “I’m wanted by the lawyers for cuttin’ a man that sassed me while I was shoe-makin’.  But I’m a-goin’ to see my young uns, even if all creation wants me.”