Young Billy and his tow-headed competitor flattened down, each to a boot, with all their might, while the leader ruefully contemplated Mr. McLean.

“That’s a Colt .45 you’ve got,” ventured he.

“Right again.  Some day, maybe, you’ll be wearing one of your own, if the angels don’t pull yu’ before you’re ripe.”

“I’m through!” sang out Towhead, rising in haste.

Small Billy was struggling still, but leaped at that, the two heads bobbing to a level together; and Mr. McLean, looking down, saw that the arrangement had not been a good one for the boots.

“Will you kindly referee,” said he, forgivingly, to the leader, “and decide which of them smears is the awfulest?”

But the leader looked the other way and played upon a mouth-organ.

“Well, that saves me money,” said Mr. McLean, jingling his pocket.  “I guess you’ve both won.”  He handed each of them a dollar.  “Now,” he continued, “I just dassent show these boots uptown; so this time it’s a dollar for the best shine.”

The two went palpitating at their brushes again, and the leader played his mouth-organ with brilliant unconcern.  Lin, tall and brooding leaned against the jutting sill of the window, a figure somehow plainly strange in town, while through the bright plate-glass Santa Claus, holding out his beer and sausages, perpetually beamed.

Billy was laboring gallantly, but it was labor, the cow-puncher perceived, and Billy no seasoned expert.  “See here,” said Lin, stooping, “I’ll show yu’ how it’s done.  He’s playin’ that toon cross-eyed enough to steer anybody crooked.  There.  Keep your blacking soft, and work with a dry brush.”

“Lemme,” said Billy.  “I’ve got to learn.”  So he finished the boot his own way with wiry determination, breathing and repolishing; and this event was also adjudged a dead heat, with results gratifying to both parties.  So here was their work done, and more money in their pockets than from all the other boots and shoes of this day; and Towhead and Billy did not wish for further trade, but to spend this handsome fortune as soon as might be.  Yet they delayed in the brightness of the window, drawn by curiosity near this new kind of man whose voice held them and whose remarks dropped them into constant uncertainty.  Even the omitted leader had been unable to go away and nurse his pride alone.

“Is that a secret society?” inquired Towhead, lifting a finger at the badge.

Mr. McLean nodded.  “Turruble,” said he.

“You’re a Wells & Fargo detective,” asserted the leader.

“Play your harp,” said Lin.

“Are you a—­a desperaydo?” whispered Towhead.

“Oh, my!” observed Mr. McLean, sadly; “what has our Jack been readin’?”

“He’s a cattle-man!” cried Billy.  “I seen his heels.”

“That’s you!” said the discovered puncher, with approval.  “You’ll do.  But I bet you can’t tell me what we wearers of this badge have sworn to do this night.”