or the mild climate, and unwieldy in emergencies."

"You ought to see Frankie in his new khaki suit! He's just too sweet for
anything," said Pete. "You know Benavides, Stan?"

"Joe and I are lifelong friends of a week's standing. _Compadres_--eh,
Joe? He came to console my captivity on your account, at first, and found
me so charming that he came back on his own."

"_Ah, que hombre!_ Do not beliefing heem, Don Hooaleece. He ees begging
me efery day to come again back--that leetle one," cried Joe indignantly.
"I come here not wis plessir--not so. He is ver' _triste_, thees
boy--ver' dull. I am to take sorry for heem--_sin vergueenza!_ Also,
perhaps a leetle I am coming for that he ordaire always from the _Posada_
the bes' dinners, lak now."

"Such a care-free life!" sighed Francis-Frank. "Decidedly I must reform
my ways. One finds so much gayety and happiness among the criminal
classes, as I observed when I first met Mr. Johnson--in Vesper Jail."

"Oh, has Pete been in jail? That's good. Tell us about it, Pete."

That was a morning which flashed by quickly. The gleeful history of
events in Vesper was told once and again, with Pete's estimate and
critical analysis of the Vesperian world. Stanley's new fortunes were
announced, and Pete spoke privately with him concerning McClintock.
The coming campaign was planned in detail, over another imported meal.
Stanley was to be released that afternoon, Benavides becoming security
for him; but, through the courtesy of the sheriff, he was to keep his
cell until late bedtime. It was wished to make the start without courting
observation. For the same reason, when the sheriff escorted Stanley and
Benavides to the courthouse for the formalities attendant to the
bail-giving, Pete did not go along. Instead, he took Frank-Francis
for a sight-seeing stroll about the town.

It was past two when, in an unquiet street, Boland's eye fell upon a
signboard which drew his eye:

THE PALMILLA

THE ONLY SECOND-CLASS SALOON IN THE CITY

Boland called attention to this surprising proclamation.

"Yes," said Pete; "that's Rhiny Archer's place. Little old
Irishman--sharp as a steel trap. You'll like him. Let's go in."

They marched in. The barroom was deserted; Tucson was hardly awakened
from siesta as yet. From the open door of a side room came a murmur of
voices.

"Where's Rhiny?" demanded Pete of the bartender.

"Rhiny don't own the place now. Sold out and gone."

"Shucks!" said Pete.