back to this, the cow-puncher, wearing the same serious, absent face he had not changed since he ran away from himself at Cheyenne, considered carefully the Hot Scotch question, and which side of the road to take and stick to, while the little bootblacks found him once more and cried, “Shine?  Shine?” monotonous as snow-birds.  He settled to stay over here with the south-side Scotches, and the little one-note song reaching his attention, he suddenly shoved his foot at the nearest boy, who lightly sprang away.

“Dare you to touch him!” piped a snow-bird, dangerously.  They were in short trousers, and the eldest enemy, it may be, was ten.

“Don’t hit me,” said Mr. McLean “I’m innocent.”

“Well, you leave him be,” said one.

“What’s he layin’ to kick you for, Billy?  ’Tain’t yer pop, is it?”

“New!” said Billy, in scorn.  “Father never kicked me.  Don’t know who he is.”

“He’s a special!” shrilled the leading bird, sensationally.  “He’s got a badge, and he’s goin’ to arrest yer.”

Two of them hopped instantly to the safe middle of the street, and scattered with practiced strategy; but Billy stood his ground.  “Dare you to arrest me!” said he.

“What’ll you give me not to?” inquired Lin, and he put his hands in his pockets, arms akimbo.

“Nothing; I’ve done nothing,” announced Billy, firmly.  But even in the last syllable his voice suddenly failed, a terror filled his eyes, and he, too, sped into the middle of the street.

“What’s he claim you lifted?” inquired the leader, with eagerness.  “Tell him you haven’t been inside a store to-day.  We can prove it!” they screamed to the special officer.

“Say,” said the slow-spoken Lin from the pavement, “you’re poor judges of a badge, you fellows.”

His tone pleased them where they stood, wide apart from each other.

Mr. McLean also remained stationary in the bluish illumination of the window.  “Why, if any policeman was caught wearin’ this here,” said he, following his sprightly invention, “he’d get arrested himself.”

This struck them extremely.  They began to draw together, Billy lingering the last.

“If it’s your idea,” pursued Mr. McLean, alluringly, as the three took cautious steps nearer the curb, “that blue, clasped hands in a circle of red stars gives the bearer the right to put folks in the jug—­why, I’ll get somebody else to black my boots for a dollar.”

The three made a swift rush, fell on simultaneous knees, and clattering their boxes down, began to spit in an industrious circle.

“Easy!” wheedled Mr. McLean, and they looked up at him, staring and fascinated.  “Not having three feet,” said the cow-puncher, always grave and slow, “I can only give two this here job.”

“He’s got a big pistol and a belt!” exulted the leader, who had precociously felt beneath Lin’s coat.

“You’re a smart boy,” said Lin, considering him, “and yu’ find a man out right away.  Now you stand off and tell me all about myself while they fix the boots—­and a dollar goes to the quickest through.”