his glass poised in the air; "thim's a bad lot fur the
woman, as writes poetry."

Then the son of Erin winked at the row of men by his side--winked right
and left--lifted his glass, shut both his eyes, and swallowed his
"tarantula juice," as they called it in the mines.

Then this man wiped his broad mouth on his red sleeve, hitched up the
broad belt that supported his duck breeches, and said, with another
wink:

"Jist think of Bryan; that fellow, Lord O'Bryan. Why, gints, I tell yez
he was pizen on the six."

But the Parson, the great rival of Sandy for the Widow's affections,
took a deeper interest in this than that of an idle gossip.

It was with a lofty sort of derision in his tone and manner, that he now
always spoke of the strange little poet, as "That Boy."

The Parson regarded him with bitter envy, as he oftentimes, at dusk and
alone, saw him enter the Widow's cabin. At such times the Parson would
usually stride up and down the trail, and swear to himself till he
fairly tore the bark from the trees.

On one occasion, the boy returning to his own cabin at an earlier hour
than usual, was met in the trail, where it ran around the spur of the
mountain, on a high bluff, by the infuriated Parson.

Little Billie, as was his custom, gave him the trail, all of the trail,
and stood quite aside on the lower hill-side, to let him pass.

But the Parson did not pass on. He came close up to the boy as he stood
there alone in the dusk, half trembling with fear, as the Parson
approached.

The strong man did not speak at first. His face was terrible with rage
and a strange tumult of thought.

The stars were half hidden by the sailing clouds, and the moon had not
risen. It was almost dark. Away up on the mountain side a wolf called to
his companion, and a lonesome night-bird, with a sharp cracked voice,
kept up a mournful monotone in the canon below.

The boy began to tremble, as the man towered up above him, and looked
down into his uplifted face.

"By God, youngster," muttered the man between his teeth. The boy sank on
his knees, as he saw the Parson look up and down the trail, as if to
make sure that no one was in sight.

Then he reached his great hand and clutched him sharp by the shoulder:

"Come here! come! come with me!"

The broad hand tightened like a vice on the shoulder. The boy tried to
rise, but trembled and half fell to the ground. The infuriated, half
monster man, held tight to his shoulder, and