“Partners, aren’t you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?” asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.

“Why, it’s Anthony Barstow!  Look at the purple raiment!  Man, you must have struck pay dirt.”

“Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one.  What will you take for the donk?”

“Help yourself.  He’s a maverick.  What’s that?  Dog fight?  Sic ’im, Rover!” and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the street to the newest excitement.

Anthony took half an apple from his pocket.  “I was saving it for tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?” The long ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy daintily out of his fingers.  Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into the best of the gambling halls.  He seated himself at a table presided over by a woman dealer.

“Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play,” she told him courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.

“Ho!  Ho!  Barstow,” roared Copper-down Hicks.  “That’s one on you!  The madam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the green cloth for a livin’.”

“It is monsieur’s toilette zat ’ave cause ze mistake.  I have now better observe he’s face.  He is welcome.”

“Don’t think your friend can sit in, though,” observed Champer-down, grinning broadly.

Anthony turned.  The donkey had followed him in, and was standing just behind his chair, head hanging, ears lopping, lethargic patience showing in every contour of his shaggy body.

“I have consorted with many of his kind,” said Anthony, smiling, “and I prefer his frank sincerity, his bravery under stress, his worldly poise, his calm exterior, which does conceal the fiery depths of his nature; in fact, all his so-called animal attributes I prefer, to the more sophisticated allure of his human gender.”  Anthony laid a strong hand on the little beast’s shoulder, while the French woman regarded him curiously out of long black eyes.

“There, take that, you good for nothing cur,” and a man kicked a dog in through the door, to lie in a twisted, bloody heap upon the floor.

“What do you mean, you brute!” called Anthony, springing upon the miner, who immediately closed with him.  Mignon screamed, and ran to stop them.

“Monsieur, for why you do — ?”

“Aw, he got licked.  I lost money on him.”

“Yes, and you haven’t paid me, neither.  You shell out, you Buckeye Pete!” spoke up a tall Kentuckian, with a mastiff on a leash.

“It wasn’t a fair fight, Spotty Collins,” whined Buckeye.

“It was — it was, so!” called a chorus of voices.

“I’ll buy your dog,” said Anthony.  “That will pay your debts.”  Anthony handed the money to Collins, picked up the half dead dog, and, holding him against his immaculate new frilled shirt, he strode away toward his claim over the mountain.  The jack, whose attitude had hair,” never changed “by so much as the waving of a suddenly raised an alert head and as his benefactor vanished, he ambled quickly after him.