n Dick stopped and advanced to the footlights.

"Gentlemen and friends," he said, slowly. "I foots up $25,000 as Roger
Catron hez MADE, fair and square, in this yer county. I foots up
$27,000 ez he has SPENT in this yer county. I puts it to you ez
men,--far-minded men,--ef this man was a pauper and debtor? I put it to
you ez far-minded men,--ez free and easy men,--ez political
economists,--ez this the kind of men to impoverish a county?"

An overwhelming and instantaneous "No!" almost drowned the last
utterance of the speaker.

"Thar is only one item," said Captain Dick, slowly, "only one item,
that ez men,--ez far-minded men,--ez political economists,--it seems to
me we hez the right to question. It's this: Thar is an item, read to
you by me, of $2,000 paid to certing San Francisco detectives, paid out
o' the assets o' Roger Catron, for the finding of Roger Catron's body.
Gentlemen of Sandy Bar and friends, I found that body, and yer it is!"

And Roger Catron, a little pale and nervous, but palpably in the flesh,
stepped upon the platform.

Of course the newspapers were full of it the next day. Of course, in
due time, it appeared as a garbled and romantic item in the San
Francisco press. Of course Mrs. Catron, on reading it, fainted, and
for two days said that this last cruel blow ended all relations between
her husband and herself. On the third day she expressed her belief
that, if he had had the slightest feeling for her, he would, long
since, for the sake of mere decency, have communicated with her. On
the fourth day she thought she had been, perhaps, badly advised, had an
open quarrel with her relatives, and intimated that a wife had certain
obligations, etc. On the sixth day, still not hearing from him, she
quoted Scripture, spoke of a seventy-times-seven forgiveness, and went
generally into mild hysterics. On the seventh, she left in the morning
train for Sandy Bar.

And really I don't know as I have anything more to tell. I dined with
them recently, and, upon my word, a more decorous, correct,
conventional, and dull dinner I never ate in my life.

"WHO WAS MY QUIET FRIEND?"

"Stranger!"

The voice was not loud, but clear and penetrating. I looked vainly up
and down the narrow, darkening trail. No one in the fringe of alder
ahead; no one on the gullied slope behind.

"O! stranger!"

This time a little impatiently. The California classical vocative,
"O," always meant business.

I