er of faces withdrew;
the hat sailed high in the air, there was an ear-splitting rattle of
shots, and the shattered remnant was returned to Wilson with ceremony.

"There--all proper millinaried dee la Bonepile," said Muskoka. "An' don't
mention it."

"Now give me that white-washed fence you have around your ears." The boy
shrank farther back in his chair, then suddenly turned and reached for
the telegraph key. In a moment the big cowman's pistol was out.

"Back in your chair! Give me that white fence!" he commanded.

Trembling, Wilson removed his collar and handed it over. The cowman
stepped back and calmly proceeded to shoot a row of holes in it.

"There," he announced, returning it, "much better. That's Bonepile
fashion. Put it on."

Meekly Wilson obeyed, and the circle of cowmen roared at the result.

"Now," proceeded Muskoka, "that coat of yours is nice. Very nice. But I
think it'd look better inside-out. Try it."

Wilson again turned desperately toward the key, the cowman banged on the
table with his pistol, and slowly the boy complied. And a few minutes
after, on a further command, he emerged from the doorway--in shattered
hat, perforated collar, ridiculously turned coat, and with trousers
rolled to his knees--a spectacle that set the cowboys staggering and
shouting about the platform in convulsions of laughter.

In fact the result was so pleasing that after enjoying it to the full,
the ranchmen decided to carry the hazing no further, and only requesting
of Wilson that he wave his hat and give "three cheers for the citizens of
Bonepile," they mounted their ponies, and scampered away.

Hastening in to the telegraph instruments, Wilson began frantically
calling Exeter. Before X had responded, however, the boy paused, and sat
back in his chair, a new light coming into his eyes.

"Yes, sir; I'll wager they sent them down here to do this," he said
aloud.

Suddenly he arose, and began removing the turned coat. "I'll stick it out
here for two weeks--if they lynch me!" declared the "dude" grimly.

It was early Wednesday evening of a week later that the monthly gold
shipment came down from the Red Valley mines. The consignment was an
unusually large one, and in view of the youth of the new operator the
superintendent wired a request that Big Bill Smith, the driver of the
mines express, remain at the station until the treasure was safely aboard
train.

On reading the message, however, Big Bill flatly refused