e huge joke between them.

The rope was brought, and the Marshal himself slipped the noose over
the criminal's neck. Then the two warders, the assistant and he swung
their victim into the air. For half an hour he hung--a dreadful
sight--from the ceiling. Then in solemn silence they lowered him down,
and one of the warders went out to order the shell to be brought round.
But as he touched ground again what was our amazement when Duncan
Warner put his hands up to his neck, loosened the noose, and took a
long, deep breath.

"Paul Jefferson's sale is goin' well," he remarked, "I could see the
crowd from up yonder," and he nodded at the hook in the ceiling.

"Up with him again!" shouted the Marshal, "we'll get the life out of
him somehow."

In an instant the victim was up at the hook once more.

They kept him there for an hour, but when he came down he was perfectly
garrulous.

"Old man Plunket goes too much to the Arcady Saloon," said he. "Three
times he's been there in an hour; and him with a family. Old man
Plunket would do well to swear off."

It was monstrous and incredible, but there it was. There was no
getting round it. The man was there talking when he ought to have been
dead. We all sat staring in amazement, but United States Marshal
Carpenter was not a man to be euchred so easily. He motioned the
others to one side, so that the prisoner was left standing alone.

"Duncan Warner," said he, slowly, "you are here to play your part, and
I am here to play mine. Your game is to live if you can, and my game
is to carry out the sentence of the law. You've beat us on
electricity. I'll give you one there. And you've beat us on hanging,
for you seem to thrive on it. But it's my turn to beat you now, for my
duty has to be done."

He pulled a six-shooter from his coat as he spoke, and fired all the
shots through the body of the prisoner. The room was so filled with
smoke that we could see nothing, but when it cleared the prisoner was
still standing there, looking down in disgust at the front of his coat.

"Coats must be cheap where you come from," said he. "Thirty dollars it
cost me, and look at it now. The six holes in front are bad enough,
but four of the balls have passed out, and a pretty state the back must
be in."

The Marshal's revolver fell from his hand, and he dropped his arms to
his sides, a beaten man.

"Maybe some of you gentlemen can tell me what this means," said he,
looking helpl