oving
of that woodbox and that small trunk there was no sound of betrayal if
Miss Woppit did not sleep. Once the men in the front room were startled
by the woman's voice crying out, "Jim--oh, Jim!" in tones of such terror
as to leave no doubt that Miss Woppit slept and dreamed frightful dreams.

The men themselves were wakeful enough; they were there to protect a
lady, and they were in no particular derelict to that trust. Sometimes
they talked together in the hushed voices that beseem a sick-chamber;
anon they took up their music apparata and thrummed and sawed therefrom
such harmonies as would seem likely to lull to sweeter repose the object
of their affection in the adjoining chamber beyond the woodbox and the
small trunk; the circumstance of the robbery they discussed in discreet
tones, both agreeing that the highwaymen were as good as dead by this
time. We can fancy that the twain were distinctly annoyed upon
discovering in one corner of the room, during their vigils, a number of
Leadville and Denver newspapers containing sonnets, poems, odes,
triolets, and such like, conspicuously marked with blue or red pencil
tracings and all aimed, in a poetic sense, at Miss Woppit's virgin heart.
This was the subtle work of the gifted Jake Dodsley! This was his
ingenious way of storming the citadel of the coy maiden's affections.

The discovery led Barber Sam to ventilate his opinion of the crafty
Dodsley, an opinion designedly pitched in a high and stentorian key and
expressive of everything but compliment. On the contrary, Three-fingered
Hoover--a guileless man, if ever there was one--stood bravely up for
Jake, imputing this artifice of his to a passion which knows no ethics so
far as competition is concerned. It was true, as Hoover admitted, that
poets seldom make good husbands, but, being an exceptionally good poet,
Jake might prove also an exception in matrimony, providing he found a
wife at his time of life. But as to the genius of the man there could be
no question; not even the poet Pabor had in all his glory done a poem so
fine as that favorite poem of Hoover's, which, direct from the burning
types of the "Leadville Herald," Hoover had committed to the tablets of
his memory and was wont to repeat or sing on all occasions to the
aggrandizement of Jake Dodsley's fame. Gradually the trend of the
discussion led to the suggestion that Hoover sing this favorite poem, and
this he did in a soothing, soulful voice. Ba