'Oh, yes, I have. That's it right there.'

"'I guess not. That's my coffin. I copped it on the high seas--flotsam
and jetsam,' says the 'roughneck.' 'What's more, I'm going to use it for
a cupboard or a cozy corner. If you want it bad pay me fifty dollars
salvage and it's yours.' Naturally the trader belched.

"'All right. If you don't want it I'll use it myself,' says the miner.
'It's the first one I ever had, and I like it fine. There's no telling
when I'll get another.'

"'Said time ain't but a minute,' observes the trader, 'unless you gimme
that freight.'

"There is some further dispute till the miner, being a quick-tempered
party, reaches for his Gat. After the smoke clears away it is found that
he has made an error of judgment, that the storekeeper is gifted as a
prophet, and that the 'roughneck' is ready for his coffin.

"Now, inasmuch as this had been a purely personal affair and the boys
was anxious to reopen the stud game, they exonerated the trader from all
blame complete, and he, being ever anxious to maintain a reputation for
fair dealing and just to show that there ain't no animus behind his
action, gives the coffin to the man who had claimed it. What's more, he
helps to lay him out with his own hands. Naturally this is considered
conduct handsome enough for any country. In an hour the man is buried
and the poker game is open again. The trader apologizes to the boys for
the delay, saying:

"'The box is mine, all right, and I'm sorry this play come up, but
the late lamented was so set on having that piece of bric-a-brac
that it seemed a shame not to give it to him.'"

At this point the narrator fell silent, much to my surprise, for
throughout this weird recital I had sat spellbound, forgetful of the
hour, the storm outside, and the snoring men in the bunkroom. When he
had gone thus far he began with a bewildering change of topic.

"Did you ever hear how Dawson Sam cut the ears off a bank dealer?"

"Hold on!" said I. "What's the rest of this story? What became of
Manard?"

"Oh, he's there yet, for all I know," said the stranger as he shuffled
the cards. "His folks wouldn't send no more money, the steamboat agent
at Nome had done his share, and the trader at Chinik said he wasn't
responsible."

"And you? Didn't you get your one hundred and fifty dollars?"

"No. You see, it was a C. O. D. shipment. I wake up along about noon,
put my head under the pump, and then look up the trader.