At the End there was likewise a social gathering.  The place was Drake’s saloon, and the guests were self-invited.  Their toilets, though unusual, scarcely require description, and a list of their diversions would not interest people of taste Refreshments were as plentiful as at Mrs. Wader’s, and, after the manner of refreshments everywhere, they caused a general unbending of spirits.  Not all the effects were pleasing to contemplate.  One of them was a pistol-shot, which, missing the man for whom it was intended, struck a person called Baggs, and remarkable only for general worthlessness.  Baggs had a physical system of the conventional type, however, and the bullet caused some disarrangement so radical in its nature, that Baggs was soon stretched upon the floor of the saloon, with a face much whiter than he usually wore.  The barkeeper poured out a glass of brandy, and passed it over the bar, but the wounded man declined it; he also rejected a box of pills which was proffered.  An Ender, who claimed to have been a physician, stooped over the victim, felt his pulse, and remarked: 

“Baggs, you’re a goner.”

“I know it,” said Baggs; “and I want to be prayed for.”

The barkeeper looked puzzled.  He was a public-spirited man, whose heart and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them.  He felt relieved when one of his customers—­a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous nose and a bad temper—­advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand, threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed: 

“Once in grace, always in grace.  I’ve been there, I know.  Let us pray.”

The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed: 

“You won’t do; somebody that’s better acquainted with God than you are must do it.”

“But, Baggs,” reasoned the barkeeper, “perhaps he’s been a preacher—­you’d better not throw away a chance.”

“Don’t care if he has,” whispered Baggs; “he don’t look like any of the prayin’ people mother used to know.”

The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the duration of the state of grace.  The Enders listened but indifferently, however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance.  The barkeeper scratched his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked: 

“Do you know the right man, Baggs?”

“Not here, I don’t,” gasped the sufferer; “not the right man.”

The emphasis on the last word was not unheeded by the bystanders; they looked at each other with as much astonishment as Enders were capable of displaying, and thrust their hands deep into the pockets of their pantaloons, in token of their inability to handle the case.  Baggs spoke again.