e regular way gold--"

"Say, whose claim is it? Am I payin' you or not?" demanded the gambler
sharply.

"Sure you are, but you said it was the richest--"

"That was back ther' at supper," said Bill coldly. "Guess supper's
over."

Sandy had no quickness of understanding. He did not appreciate the
fineness of the distinction. He shook his head solemnly.

"Maybe I ain't jest bright enuff to foller--"

"You ain't," agreed Bill shortly.

He winked at Minky, who was listening interestedly. Then he turned
abruptly and pointed at the array of patent medicines adorning one of
the shelves.

"Say," he cried, "'bout them physics."

Minky turned and gazed affectionately at the shelf. It was the pride
of his store. He always kept it well dusted and dressed. The delicate
wrappings and fancy labels always had a strong fascination for him.
Then there were the curative possibilities of the contents of the
inviting packages as set forth by the insistent "drummer" who sold
them to him.

"An elegant stock," he murmured. "Sort of concentrated health." Then
he glanced round anxiously. "Your hosses ain't ailin'?" he inquired.
"I got most everything fer hosses. Ther's embrocation, hoss iles,
every sort of lin'ments. Hoss balls? Linseed?"

The gambler shook his head.

"You ain't got physic fer men-folk?" he inquired.

"I sure have. But--but you ain't sick?" Minky eyed his friend
narrowly.

Bill's mouth twisted wryly.

"I ain't jest sick," he replied. "But," he added hopefully, "you can't
never be sure."

Minky nodded.

"That's so. I'd say you don't look a heap sick, though."

"You sure don't," agreed Sandy. "But, as you sez, you can't never
tell. Now, you buyin' ha'f Zip's claim makes--" His words died down to
a thoughtful murmur. Bill's look was somehow discouraging as he
pointed at the medicine.

"What you got?" he demanded abruptly.

"Why, most everything," said Minky. "Ther', you see that longish
bottle? That's a dandy cough cure. Guess you ain't needin' that? No?
Ah!" as Bill shook his head, "I didn't guess you'd a cough. Corns?
Now, this yer packet is an elegant fixin' fer corns, soft an' hard. It
jest kills 'em stone dead, sure. It's bully stuff, but 'tain't good
fer eatin'. You ain't got corns?" he inquired, as Bill again shook his
head. "Ah, seems a pity." He turned again to the shelf, determined, if
possible, to suit his customer, and lifted down a number of packets
and sealed bottles. "Now, here," he cried