easy-chair, took off
his boots, brought him his own slippers, and gave him coffee. Then, as
his stupor began to overcome him, Craig put him in his own bed, and came
forth with a face written over with grief.

'Don't mind, old chap,' said Graeme kindly.

But Craig looked at him without a word, and, throwing himself into a
chair, put his face in his hands. As we sat there in silence the door
was suddenly pushed open and in walked Abe Baker with the words, 'Where
is Nixon?' and we told him where he was. We were still talking when
again a tap came to the door, and Shaw came in looking much disturbed.

'Did you hear about Nixon?' he asked. We told him what we knew.

'But did you hear how they got him?' he asked, excitedly.

As he told us the tale, the men stood listening, with faces growing
hard.

It appeared that after the making of the League the Black Rock Hotel man
had bet Idaho one hundred to fifty that Nixon could not be got to drink
before Easter. All Idaho's schemes had failed, and now he had only three
days in which to win his money, and the ball was his last chance. Here
again he was balked, for Nixon, resisting all entreaties, barred his
shack door and went to bed before nightfall, according to his invariable
custom on pay-days. At midnight some of Idaho's men came battering at
the door for admission, which Nixon reluctantly granted. For half an
hour they used every art of persuasion to induce him to go down to the
ball, the glorious success of which was glowingly depicted; but Nixon
remained immovable, and they took their departure, baffled and cursing.
In two hours they returned drunk enough to be dangerous, kicked at the
door in vain, finally gained entrance through the window, hauled Nixon
out of bed, and, holding a glass of whisky to his lips, bade him drink.
But he knocked the glass sway, spilling the liquor over himself and the
bed.

It was drink or fight, and Nixon was ready to fight; but after parley
they had a drink all round, and fell to persuasion again. The night was
cold, and poor Nixon sat shivering on the edge of his bed. If he would
take one drink they would leave him alone. He need not show himself so
stiff. The whisky fumes filled his nostrils. If one drink would get
them off, surely that was better than fighting and killing some one or
getting killed. He hesitated, yielded, drank his glass. They sat about
him amiably drinking, and lauding him as a fine fellow after all. One
more glass b