it down when any one was at pains to fetch it to me; I was always willing they should leave it with me for to have a merry time.  Murphy heard I’d said if he’d come to Fort Worth I’d take him home and make a pet of him; and he’d sent back word that he was looking for a man with two ears to play with; and I’d said mine was on loose and for him to come and pull ’em off.  After that there was just one thing he could do if he wanted to be well thought of, and he done it.  He hit the town hell-snorting, and so mad he was fit to be tied.”  Mr. Shrimplin paused to permit this striking phrase to lay hold of Custer’s imagination.  “Yes, sir, hell-snorting, and so bad he was plum scairt of himself.  He said he was looking for a gentleman who had sent him word he had two ears to contribute to the evening’s gaiety, by which I knowed he meant me and was in earnest.  He was full of boot-leg whisky—­”

“What kind of whisky’s that, pa?” asked Custer.

“That,” said Mr. Shrimplin, looking into the round innocent face of his son, “that’s the stuff the traders used to sell the Indians.  Strong?  Well, you might say it was middling strong—­just middling—­about three drops of it would make a rabbit spit in a bulldog’s face!”

It was on one memorable twenty-seventh of November that Mr. Shrimplin reached this height of verbal felicity, and being Thanksgiving day, it was, aside from the smell of strong yellow soap and the fresh-starched white shirt, very like a Sunday.

He and Custer sat before the kitchen stove and in the intervals of his narrative listened to the wind rise without, and watched the sparse flakes of fine snow that it brought coldly out of the north, where the cloud banks lay leaden and chill on the far horizon.

[Illustration:  “I started to tell you how I put Murphy out of business.”]

Mr. Shrimplin had risen early that day, or, as he told Custer, he had “got up soon”, and long before his son had left his warm bed in the small room over the kitchen, was well on his rounds in his high two-wheeled cart, with the rack under the seat which held the great cans of gasolene from which the lamps were filled.  He had only paused at Maxy Schaffer’s Railroad Hotel to partake of what he called a Kentucky breakfast—­a drink of whisky and a chew of tobacco—­a simple dietary protection against the evils of an empty stomach, to which he particularly drew Custer’s attention.

His father’s occupation was entirely satisfactory to Custer.  Being employed by the town gave him an official standing, perhaps not so distinguished as that of a policeman, but still eminently worth while; and Mr. Shrimplin added not a little to the sense of its importance by dilating on the intrigues of ambitious rivals who desired to wrest his contract from him; and he impressed Custer, who frequently accompanied him on his rounds, with the wisdom of keeping the lamps that shone upon the homes of members of the town council