he tales of gold
and prospect pans he heard, rather than to the whisky he slid so easily
down his throat.

The partners were in despair, though they appeared boisterous and jovial
of speech and action.

"Don't mind me, my friend," Hootchinoo Bill hiccoughed, his hand upon Ans
Handerson's shoulder. "Have another drink. We're just celebratin'
Kink's birthday here. This is my pardner, Kink, Kink Mitchell. An' what
might your name be?"

This learned, his hand descended resoundingly on Kink's back, and Kink
simulated clumsy self-consciousness in that he was for the time being the
centre of the rejoicing, while Ans Handerson looked pleased and asked
them to have a drink with him. It was the first and last time he
treated, until the play changed and his canny soul was roused to unwonted
prodigality. But he paid for the liquor from a fairly healthy-looking
sack. "Not less 'n eight hundred in it," calculated the lynx-eyed Kink;
and on the strength of it he took the first opportunity of a privy
conversation with Bidwell, proprietor of the bad whisky and the tent.

"Here's my sack, Bidwell," Kink said, with the intimacy and surety of one
old-timer to another. "Just weigh fifty dollars into it for a day or so
more or less, and we'll be yours truly, Bill an' me."

Thereafter the journeys of the sack to the scales were more frequent, and
the celebration of Kink's natal day waxed hilarious. He even essayed to
sing the old-timer's classic, "The Juice of the Forbidden Fruit," but
broke down and drowned his embarrassment in another round of drinks. Even
Bidwell honoured him with a round or two on the house; and he and Bill
were decently drunk by the time Ans Handerson's eyelids began to droop
and his tongue gave promise of loosening.

Bill grew affectionate, then confidential. He told his troubles and hard
luck to the bar-keeper and the world in general, and to Ans Handerson in
particular. He required no histrionic powers to act the part. The bad
whisky attended to that. He worked himself into a great sorrow for
himself and Bill, and his tears were sincere when he told how he and his
partner were thinking of selling a half-interest in good ground just
because they were short of grub. Even Kink listened and believed.

Ans Handerson's eyes were shining unholily as he asked, "How much you
tank you take?"

Bill and Kink did not hear him, and he was compelled to repeat his query.
They appeared reluctant. He grew keene