ad, to where there's a hearty welcome waiting,
togither with a bite and a bed."

"But, Mr. Trefethen, I can't allow you to--"

"Man, you must allow me, for I'm no in the habit o' being crossed.
Besides, I'd never dare go back to mother without you. This thy grip?"

With this the brawny miner swung Peveril's bag to his shoulder, and
started briskly down the station platform, followed closely by the
young man, who but a moment before had believed himself to be without
a friend.

They had not gone more than a block from the station, and Peveril was
wondering at the crowds of comfortable-looking folk who thronged the
wooden sidewalks, as well as at the rows of brilliantly lighted shops,
when his guide turned abruptly into the door of a saloon.

Following curiously, the young man also entered, and, passing behind a
latticed screen, found himself in a long room having a sanded floor,
and furnished with a glittering bar, tables, chairs, and several
queer-looking machines, the nature of which he did not understand.
Several men were leaning against the counter of the bar; but without
noticing them other than by a general nod of recognition, Mark
Trefethen walked to the far end of the room, where he deposited
Peveril's bag on the floor beside one of the machines already
mentioned.

It was a narrow, upright frame, placed close to the wall, and holding
a stout wooden panel. In the centre of this, at the height of a man's
chest, was a stuffed leathern pad, on which was painted a grotesque
face, evidently intended for that of a negro, and above it was a dial
bearing numbers that ranged from 1 to 300. The single pointer on this
dial indicated the number 173, a figure at which Mark Trefethen
sniffed contemptuously.

"Let's see thee take a lick at 'Blacky,' lad, just for luck," he said.

Although he had never before seen or even heard of such a machine as
now confronted him, Peveril was sufficiently quick-witted to realize
that his companion desired him to strike a blow with his fist at the
grinning face painted on the leathern pad, and he did so without
hesitation. At the same time, as he had no idea of what resistance he
should encounter, he struck out rather gingerly, and the dial-pointer
sprang back to 156.

Mark Trefethen looked at once incredulous and disappointed. "Surely
that's not thy best lick, lad," he said, in an aggrieved tone; "why,
old as I am, I could better it mysel'." Thus saying, the miner drew
back a fist