up a drink o'
gasoline and Condy's Fluid, so's I kin forgit it."

"Only wan thing wrong wid her," exclaimed an Irish pig-breeder from
Tipperary; "she should 'a' been painted Emerild Green."

"Yes,--or maybe Orange," commented his friend who hailed from Ulster.

But with Percival DeRue Hannington it was a serious crime and he was
in no mood to see any humour in the situation.

"Gentlemen," he cried, as the crowd began to dwindle back, "I'll give
one hundred dollars cash to any one of you who can tell me who did
this. My offer holds good for a week."

At that particular moment, the offer of a bribe did not bring to the
fore any informers, so DeRue Hannington, riding a spare horse and
leading his favourite by a halter rope, jogged his way homeward.

He had hardly gone the length of a block, when the comparative quiet
of a respectable western saloon was again broken in upon. There was a
clatter of hoofs outside which came to an abrupt stoppage; a heavy
scrambling on the wooden steps leading to the veranda which ran round
the hotel, an encouraging shout from a familiar voice, a clearing of
passageway;--and Jim Langford, in all his gay trappings, still astride
his well-trained horse, was occupying the middle of the bar-room
floor, bowing profusely right and left to the astonished onlookers,
making elaborate sweeps with his hat.

Everyone stopped, open-mouthed.

"What's this now!" shouted the long-suffering Charlie Mackenzie, the
husky proprietor of the Kenora, as he came in from the dining-room.

"Good evening, good sir! It is Jim Langford, and very much at your
service," came the gracious reply.

"Most of the time Jim Langford is welcome--but not when he don't know
the dif' between a bar and a stable. Hop it now, and tie your little
bull outside," was Mackenzie's ready retort.

"Boys!" cried Jim with a laugh, "we all know Charlie. He's a jolly
good fellow, which nobody can deny;--and all that sort of thing;--but
we're thirsty.

"Hands up--both hands--who wants a drink?"

Half a hundred hands shot in the air.

Jim's mood changed like a summer's day before a thunder plump. He
pulled a gun. "Keep them there or I'll blow your heads off," he
shouted dramatically.

And every hand stayed decorously and obediently above its owner's
head.

Suddenly Jim laughed and threw his gun on the floor.

"Scared you all stiff that time! The gun's empty--not a cartridge in
it.

"Come on, fellows! This is on me. Line up an