ht on this society," said Wells-Fargo's man, Ferguson.
"If I was running this shop I'd make him say something, some time
or other, or vamos the ranch." This with a suggestive glance at the
barkeeper, who did not choose to see it, since the man under discussion
was a good customer, and went home pretty well set up, every night, with
refreshments furnished from the bar.

"Say," said Ham Sandwich, miner, "does any of you boys ever recollect of
him asking you to take a drink?"

"Him? Flint Buckner? Oh, Laura!"

This sarcastic rejoinder came in a spontaneous general outburst in one
form of words or another from the crowd. After a brief silence, Pat
Riley, miner, said,

"He's the 15-puzzle, that cuss. And his boy's another one. I can't make
them out."

"Nor anybody else," said Ham Sandwich; "and if they are 15-puzzles how
are you going to rank up that other one? When it comes to A 1 right-down
solid mysteriousness, he lays over both of them. Easy--don't he?"

"You bet!"

Everybody said it. Every man but one. He was the new-comer--Peterson. He
ordered the drinks all round, and asked who No. 3 might be. All answered
at once, "Archy Stillman!"

"Is he a mystery?" asked Peterson.

"Is he a mystery? Is Archy Stillman a mystery?" said Wells-Fargo's man,
Ferguson. "Why, the fourth dimension's foolishness to him."

For Ferguson was learned.

Peterson wanted to hear all about him; everybody wanted to tell him;
everybody began. But Billy Stevens, the barkeeper, called the house to
order, and said one at a time was best. He distributed the drinks, and
appointed Ferguson to lead. Ferguson said,

"Well, he's a boy. And that is just about all we know about him. You can
pump him till you are tired; it ain't any use; you won't get anything.
At least about his intentions, or line of business, or where he's from,
and such things as that. And as for getting at the nature and get-up of
his main big chief mystery, why, he'll just change the subject,
that's all. You can guess till you're black in the face--it's your
privilege--but suppose you do, where do you arrive at? Nowhere, as near
as I can make out."

"What is his big chief one?"

"Sight, maybe. Hearing, maybe. Instinct, maybe. Magic, maybe. Take your
choice--grownups, twenty-five; children and servants, half price. Now
I'll tell you what he can do. You can start here, and just disappear;
you can go and hide wherever you want to, I don't care where it is, nor
how far--and