straw from a glass
standing on the bar, exercising an exact and critical taste in its
selection. "I'm very thirsty," he remarked plaintively. Saying which,
he shot a hole in a barrel of whisky, inserted the straw, and drank
lingeringly.

"Thank you," he said softly, and shot the glass of straws off the
counter. "Thank you. Not after me." The whisky ran out over the
floor, out of the door, over the path and into the road, but no one
raised a voice in rebuke.

The blue flame burned a trifle higher in Ike Anderson's brain. He was
growing very much intoxicated, and therefore very quiet and very
sober-looking. He did not yell and flourish his revolvers, but walked
along decently, engaged in thought. He was a sandy-complexioned man,
not over five feet six inches in height. His long front teeth
projected very much, giving him a strange look. His chin was not heavy
and square, but pointed, and his jaws were narrow. His eye was said by
some to have been hazel when he was sober, though others said it was
blue, or gray. No one had ever looked into it carefully enough to tell
its colour when Ike Anderson was drunk, as he was to-day.

Ike Anderson passed by the front of the Cottage Hotel. A negro boy,
who worked about the place, was sweeping idly at the porch door,
shuffling lazily about at his employment. Ike paused and looked
amiably at him for some moments.

"Good morning, coloured scion," he said pleasantly.

"Mawnin', boss," said the negro, grinning widely.

"Coloured scion," said Ike, "hereafter--to oblige me--would you mind
whoopin' it up with yore broom a leetle faster?"

The negro scowled and muttered, and the next moment sprang sprawling
forward with a scream. Ike had shot off the heel of his shoe, in the
process not sparing all of the foot. The negro went ashy pale, and
believed himself mortally hurt, but was restored by the icy tones of
his visitor, who said, evenly and calmly:

"Coloured scion, please go over into that far corner and begin to sweep
there, and then come on over the rest of the flo'. Now, sweep!"

The negro swept as he had never swept before. Twice a bullet cut the
floor at his feet; and at last the stick of the broom was shattered in
his hand. "Coloured scion," said Ike Anderson, as though in surprise,
"yore broom is damaged. Kneel down and pray for another." The negro
knelt and surely prayed.

On all sides swept the wide and empty streets. It was Ike Anderson's
town.