at directness that
it was the "Old Man's house," and that, invoking the Divine Power, if
the case were his own, he would invite whom he pleased, even if in
so doing he imperilled his salvation. The Powers of Evil, he further
remarked, should contend against him vainly. All this delivered with a
terseness and vigor lost in this necessary translation.

"In course. Certainly. Thet's it," said the Old Man with a sympathetic
frown. "Thar's no trouble about THET. It's my own house, built every
stick on it myself. Don't you be afeard o' her, boys. She MAY cut up a
trifle rough,--ez wimmin do,--but she'll come round." Secretly the Old
Man trusted to the exaltation of liquor and the power of courageous
example to sustain him in such an emergency.

As yet, Dick Bullen, the oracle and leader of Simpson's Bar, had not
spoken. He now took his pipe from his lips. "Old Man, how's that yer
Johnny gettin' on? Seems to me he didn't look so peart last time I seed
him on the bluff heavin' rocks at Chinamen. Didn't seem to take much
interest in it. Thar was a gang of 'em by yar yesterday,--drownded out
up the river,--and I kinder thought o' Johnny, and how he'd miss 'em!
May be now, we'd be in the way ef he wus sick?"

The father, evidently touched not only by this pathetic picture of
Johnny's deprivation, but by the considerate delicacy of the speaker,
hastened to assure him that Johnny was better and that a "little fun
might 'liven him up." Whereupon Dick arose, shook himself, and saying,
"I'm ready. Lead the way, Old Man: here goes," himself led the way with
a leap, a characteristic howl, and darted out into the night. As he
passed through the outer room he caught up a blazing brand from the
hearth. The action was repeated by the rest of the party, closely
following and elbowing each other, and before the astonished proprietor
of Thompson's grocery was aware of the intention of his guests, the room
was deserted.

The night was pitchy dark. In the first gust of wind their temporary
torches were extinguished, and only the red brands dancing and flitting
in the gloom like drunken will-o'-the-wisps indicated their whereabouts.
Their way led up Pine-Tree Canyon, at the head of which a broad, low,
bark-thatched cabin burrowed in the mountain-side. It was the home of
the Old Man, and the entrance to the tunnel in which he worked when
he worked at all. Here the crowd paused for a moment, out of delicate
deference to their host, who came up p