wled Roaring Bull, bringing one
hand down on the board by way of emphasis, while with the other he held
out his plate for another steak.

"You're too hard on some of them, father," said Mary, in a voice the
softness of which seemed appropriate to the beauty of her face.

"Always the way wi' you wenches," observed the father. "Some o' the
villains are good-lookin', others are ugly; so, the first are not so bad
as the second--eh, lass?"

Mary laughed. She was accustomed to her fathers somewhat rough but not
ill-natured rebuffs.

"Perhaps I may be prejudiced, father," she returned; "but apart from
that, surely you would never compare Buck Tom with Jake the Flint,
though they do belong to the same band."

"You are right, my lass," rejoined her father. "They do say that Buck
Tom is a gentleman, and often keeps back his boys from devilry--though
he can't always manage that, an' no wonder, for Jake the Flint is the
cruellest monster 'tween this an' Texas if all that's said of him be
true."

"I wish my comrade was well out o' their clutches," said Dick, with a
look of anxiety; "an' it makes me feel very small to be sittin' here
enjoyin' myself when I might be ridin' on to help him if he should need
help."

"Don't worry yourself on that score," said the host. "You couldn't find
your way without a guide though I was to give ye the best horse in my
stable--which I'd do slick off if it was of any use. There's not one o'
my boys on the ranch just now, but there'll be four or five of 'em in
to-morrow by daylight an' I promise you the first that comes in. They
all know the country for three hundred miles around--every inch--an' you
may ride my best horse till you drop him if ye can. There, now, wash
down your victuals an' give us a yarn, or a song."

"I'm quite sure," added Mary, by way of encouragement, "that with one of
the outlaws for an old friend, Mr Brooke will be quite safe among
them."

"But he's _not_ an outlaw, Miss Mary," broke in Darvall. "Leastwise we
have the best reason for believin' that he's detained among them against
his will. Hows'ever, it's of no use cryin' over spilt milk. I'm bound
to lay at anchor in this port till mornin', so, as I can't get up steam
for a song in the circumstances, here goes for a yarn."

The yarn to which our handsome seaman treated his audience was nothing
more than an account of one of his numerous experiences on the ocean,
but he had such a pleasant, earnest, truth-