n' and clingy, wringin' him out good and thorough--by the neck.
He made a fine mop.

"These clippings," continued "Bitter Root," fishing into his pocket,
"tell in beautiful figgers how the last seen of Oily Heegan he was
holystoning the deck of a sooty little tugboat under the
admonishments and feet of 'Bitter Root' Billings of Montana, and they
state how the strikers tried to get tugs for pursuit and couldn't,
and how, all day long, from the housetops was visible a tugboat madly
cruisin' about inside the outer cribs, bustin' the silence with
joyful blasts of victory, and they'll further state that about dark
she steamed up the river, tired and draggled, with a bony-lookin'
cowboy inhalin' cigareets on the stern-bits, holding a three-foot
knotted rope in his lap. When a delegation of strikers met her,
inquirin' about one D. O'Hara Heegan, it says like this," and
Billings read laboriously as follows:--

"'Then the bronzed and lanky man arose with a smile of rare
contentment, threw overboard his cigarette, and approaching the
boiler-room hatch, called loudly: "Come out of that," and the
President of the Federation of Fresh Water Firemen dragged himself
wearily out into the flickering lights. He was black and drenched
and streaked with sweat; also, he shone with the grease and oils of
the engines, while the palms of his hands were covered with painful
blisters from unwonted, intimate contact with shovels and drawbars.
It was seen that he winced fearfully as the cowboy twirled the rope
end.

"'"He's got the makin's of a fair fireman,'" said the stranger, "'all
he wants is practice.'"

"Then, as the delegation murmured angrily, he held up his hand and,
in the ensuing silence, said:--

"'"Boys, the strike's over. Mr. Heegan has arbitrated."'"

THE SHYNESS OF SHORTY

Bailey smoked morosely as he scanned the dusty trail leading down
across the "bottom" and away over the dry grey prairie toward the
hazy mountains in the west.

From his back-tilted chair on the veranda, the road was visible for
miles, as well as the river trail from the south, sneaking up through
the cottonwoods and leprous sycamores.

He called gruffly into the silence of the house, and his speech held
the surliness of his attitude.

"Hot Joy! Bar X outfit comin'. Git supper."

A Chinaman appeared in the door and gazed at the six-mule team
descending the distant gully to the ford.

"Jesse one man, hey? All light," and slid quietly ba