ere was an ill-natured colloquy, a delay, more
impatience, and at length the landlord reluctantly opened the door.

He held in his hand an oil-lamp. The chimney had been smoked in such a
way that the light of the flame was thrown forward and not back.
Lefever in the background, nothing disturbed, threw a flash-light back
at the half-dressed innkeeper. His hair was tumbled sleepily across
his forehead and his eyes--one showing a white scar across the
pupil--set deep in retreating orbits, blinked under heavy brows. "What
do you want?" he demanded. Pardaloe, without answering, pushed through
the half-open door into the room.

"We're staying here to-night," announced Pardaloe, as simply as
possible. Lefever had already edged into the doorway, pushing the
stubborn innkeeper aside by sheer bulk of weight and size.

The sleepy man gave ground stubbornly. "I've got no beds," he growled
surlily. "You can't stay here."

Lefever at once assumed the case for the intruders. "I could sleep
this minute standing on my head," he declared. "And as for staying
here, I can't stay anywhere else. What's your name, son?" he demanded,
buttonholing in his off-hand way the protesting man.

"My name is Philippi," answered the one-eyed defiantly.

"Regards to Brutus, my dear fellow," retorted Lefever, seizing the
man's hand as if happily surprised.

"You can't crowd in here, so you might as well move on," declared
Philippi gruffly. "This is no hotel."

Lefever laughed. "No offense, Philippi, but would it be indiscreet to
ask which side of your face hurts the most when you smile?"

"If you've got no beds, we won't bother you long," interposed
Pardaloe.

"I'd like a pitcher of ice-water, anyway," persisted Lefever. "Sit
down, noble Greek; we'll talk this over."

"Who are you fellows?" demanded Philippi, looking from one to the
other.

"I am a prospector from the Purgatoire," answered Pardaloe.

Philippi turned his keen eye on Lefever. "You a railroad man?"

"No, sir," declared Lefever, dusting the alkali vigorously from his
coat sleeve.

"What are you?"

John looked as modest as it was possible for him to look. "Few people
ask me that, but in matter of fact I am an _objet d'art_."

"What's that?"

"Different things at different times to different men, Philippi,"
answered Lefever simply, exploring, while he spoke, different corners
of the room with his flash-light. "At this moment--" he stopped
suddenly, then resumed reassurin