as a general thing, seemed, with one exception, to be stricken dumb.  But the Scholar proved himself equal to the occasion, and with courtly phrase bade the new-comer welcome to the camp.  He had always been a popular man among women in his palmier days, though openly holding rather a poor opinion of them; and as the one before him now was neat of speech and comely of form, he was not at all averse to enjoying her society and conversation.

“I should be much obliged if you would direct me to a hotel,” she said, after taking a look around the cheap gaudiness of the saloon.

“I’m sorry to say that we have no hotel here as yet, Miss—­er—?”

“Musgrave.  Miss Mary Musgrave”—­with a little bow.  “But I heard that a German had started a hotel here.”

“No; there is nothing but this.  That”—­pointing to Herr Gustave, who was regarding the newcomer with an evil eye—­“that is the German.”

Miss Musgrave appeared distressed.

“Then where can I go?” she asked.  “Are there any lodgings to be had?”

“The lady may have my place,” chorused three eager voices, and every man in the room repeated the offer.

She thanked them with a pretty smile and one comprehensive bow, and looked up at the Scholar for help.

“I would offer you my hut if it were not such a wretched one.  But, as it is, I should advise you to take this man’s”—­and he pointed to Tommy Dartmoor.

“Why, mine’s twenty carats better than hisn!” exclaimed the Cripple.

“And mine better ’n either,” growled Dan.

“Mine’s the best of the lot.”

“No, it isn’t; mine is,” yelled others, till there was a general roar, which caused Miss Musgrave to look frightened and shrink nearer to the Scholar, and that gentleman to raise his hand for silence.

“Look here,” said he, “we’ll pick out the twelve best, and their owners can cut with one another from a pack of cards.”

After some discussion twelve were settled upon, but the number was immediately raised to thirteen to prevent Jockey Bill disgracing the camp by shooting before a lady.  A pack of cards was placed on the bar, and each man chose one, holding his selection face downward till all were ready.  Then the Scholar said, “Turn,” and there were exhibited five aces, two kings, a queen, three knaves, and two smaller cards.  This was awkward, to say the least of it, and, while sarcastic laughter rippled among the spectators, there was an instinctive movement of right hands toward the back of the belt on the part of each of the thirteen.

But the Scholar’s voice, full of remonstrance, said, “Boys, you’re being looked at,” and there was a regretful sigh or two, but no bloodshed.

Miss Musgrave gazed inquiringly from one to another, and the Scholar, laying his hand on her arm, whispered something in her ear.  She smiled, whispered back, and was answered, and then, stripping off a pair of well-fitting fawn gloves, she took the cards in a pretty little white hand, and dealt out one to each of the competitors with charming clumsiness.