round table, a half-dozen chairs, a small
sheet-iron stove, and a rude kind of settee that served Jim Woppit for a
bed by night. There were some pictures hung about on the walls--neither
better nor poorer than the pictures invariably found in the homes of
miners. There was the inevitable portrait of John C. Fremont and the
inevitable print of the pathfinder planting his flag on the summit of
Pike's Peak; a map of Colorado had been ingeniously invested with an old
looking-glass frame, and there were several cheap chromos of flowers and
fruit, presumably Miss Woppit's contributions to the art stores of the
household. Upon the centre table, which was covered with a square green
cloth, stood a large oil lamp, whose redolence and constant spluttering
testified pathetically to its neglect. There were two books on the
table--viz., an old "Life of Kit Carson" and a bound file of the "Police
News," abounding, as you will surmise, in atrocious delineations of
criminal life. We can understand that a volume of police literature
would not be out of place in the home of an executive of the law.

Miss Woppit, though hardly reassured by the hearty protestations of
Hoover and Barber Sam as to her brother's security, _hoped_ that all
would be well. With evident diffidence she bade her guests make
themselves at home; there was plenty of wood in the box behind the stove
and plenty of oil in the tell-tale lamp; she fetched a big platter of
crackers, a mammoth cut of cheese, a can of cove oysters, and a noble
supply of condiments. Did the gents reckon they would be comfortable?
The gents smiled and bowed obsequiously, neither, however, indulging in
conversation to any marked degree, for, as was quite natural, each felt
in the presence of his rival a certain embarrassment which we can fancy
Miss Woppit respected if she did not enjoy it.

Finally Miss Woppit retired to her own delectable bower in the kitchen
with the parting remark that she would sleep in a sense of perfect
security; this declaration flattered her protectors, albeit she had no
sooner closed the door than she piled the kitchen woodbox and her own
small trunk against it--a proceeding that touched Three-fingered Hoover
deeply and evoked from him a tender expression as to the natural timidity
of womankind, which sentiment the crafty Barber Sam instantly indorsed in
a tone loud enough for the lady to hear.

It is presumed that Miss Woppit slept that night. Following the m