"He--what you say it?--he r-r-r-rave over
Miss R-r-raleigh. He make me jealous. He shall be shoot at sunrice an' I
weel console me wiz his shooter."

"Charming programme!" commented the doomed man. It struck Banneker that
he had probably been drinking a good deal, also that he was a very
likeable person, indeed. "If you don't mind my asking, where the devil
did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Oh, out West where I came from. I used to practice on the pine trees at
a little water-tank station called Manzanita".

"Manzanita!" repeated the other. "By God!" He swore softly, and stared
at the other.

Banneker was annoyed. Evidently the gossip of which Io's girl friend had
hinted that other night at Sherry's had obtained wide currency. Before
the conversation could go any further, even had it been likely to after
that surprising check, one of the actors came over. He played the part
of an ex-cowboy, who, in the bar-room scene, shot his way out of danger
through a circle of gang-men, and he was now seeking from Banneker
ostensibly pointers, actually praise.

"Say, old man," he began without introduction. "Gimme a tip or two. How
do you get your hand over for your gun without giving yourself away?"

"Just dive for it, as you do in the play. You do it plenty quick enough.
You'd get the drop on me ten times out of ten," returned Banneker
pleasantly, leaving the gratified actor with the conviction that he had
been talking with the coming dramatic critic of the age.

For upwards of an hour there was carnival on the dismantling stage,
mingled with the hurried toil of scene-shifters and the clean-up gang.
Then the impromptu party began to disperse, Eyre going away with the
dancer, after coming to bid Banneker good-night, with a look of veiled
curiosity and interest which its object could not interpret. Banneker
was gathered into the _corps intime_ of Miss Raleigh's supper party,
including the author of the play, an elderly first-nighter, two or three
dramatic critics, Marrineal, who had drifted in, late, and half a dozen
of the company. The men outnumbered the women, as is usual in such
affairs, and Banneker found himself seated between the playwright and a
handsome, silent girl who played with distinction the part of an elderly
woman. There was wine in profusion, but he noticed that the player-folk
drank sparingly. Condition, he correctly surmised, was part of their
stock in trade. As it should be part of his also.

Late in