The grocery business of Mr. Roscommon, although adequate and sufficient for the village, was not exhausting nor overtaxing to the proprietor; the refilling of the pork and flour barrel of the average miner was the work of a brief hour on Saturday nights, but the daily replenishment of the average miner with whisky was arduous and incessant.  Roscommon spent more time behind his bar than his grocer’s counter.  Add to this the fact that a long shed-like extension or wing bore the legend, “Cosmopolitan Hotel, Board or Lodging by the Day or Week.  M. Roscommon,” and you got an idea of the variety of the proprietor’s functions.  The “hotel,” however, was more directly under the charge of Mrs. Roscommon, a lady of thirty years, strong, truculent, and good-hearted.

Mr. Roscommon had early adopted the theory that most of his customers were insane, and were to be alternately bullied or placated, as the case might be.  Nothing that occurred, no extravagance of speech nor act, ever ruffled his equilibrium, which was as dogged and stubborn as it was outwardly calm.  When not serving liquor, or in the interval while it was being drank, he was always wiping his counter with an exceedingly dirty towel,—­or indeed anything that came handy.  Miners, noticing this purely perfunctory habit, occasionally supplied him slily with articles inconsistent with their service,—­fragments of their shirts and underclothing, flour sacking, tow, and once with a flannel petticoat of his wife’s, stolen from the line in the back-yard.  Roscommon would continue his wiping without looking up, but yet conscious of the presence of each customer.  “And it’s not another dhrop ye’ll git, Jack Brown, until ye’ve wiped out the black score that stands agin ye.”  “And it’s there ye are, darlint, and it’s here’s the bottle that’s been lukin’ for ye sins Saturday.”  “And fwhot hev you done with the last I sent ye, ye divil of a McCorkle, and here’s me back that’s bruk entoirely wid dipping intil the pork barl to giv ye the best sides, and ye spending yur last cint on a tare into Gilroy.  Whist! and if it’s fer foighting ye are, boys, there’s an illigant bit of sod beyant the corral, and it may be meself’ll come out with a shtick and be sociable.”

On this particular day, however, Mr. Roscommon was not in his usual spirits, and when the clatter of horses’ hoofs before the door announced the approach of strangers, he absolutely ceased wiping his counter and looked up as Dr. Guild, the President, and Secretary of the new Company strode into the shop.

“We are looking,” said the President, “for a man by the name of Wiles, and three Mexicans known as Pedro, Manuel, and Miguel.”

“Ye are?”

“We are!”

“Faix, and I hope ye’ll foind ’em.  And if ye’ll git from ’em the score I’ve got agin ’em, darlint, I’ll add a blessing to it.”

There was a laugh at this from the bystanders, who, somehow, resented the intrusion of these strangers.