," was playfully added by the others,--he threw
off his liquor with a single dexterous movement of head and elbow, and
stood refreshed.

"Hello, old major!" said Bill, suddenly setting down his glass. "Are YOU
there?"

It was a boy, who, becoming bashfully conscious that this epithet was
addressed to him, retreated sideways to the doorway, where he stood
beating his hat against the door-post with an assumption of indifference
that his downcast but mirthful dark eyes and reddening cheek scarcely
bore out. Perhaps it was owing to his size, perhaps it was to a certain
cherubic outline of face and figure, perhaps to a peculiar trustfulness
of expression, that he did not look half his age, which was really
fourteen.

Everybody in Angel's knew the boy. Either under the venerable title
bestowed by Bill, or as "Tom Islington," after his adopted father, his
was a familiar presence in the settlement, and the theme of much local
criticism and comment. His waywardness, indolence, and unaccountable
amiability--a quality at once suspicious and gratuitous in a pioneer
community like Angel's--had often been the subject of fierce discussion.
A large and reputable majority believed him destined for the gallows; a
minority not quite so reputable enjoyed his presence without troubling
themselves much about his future; to one or two the evil predictions of
the majority possessed neither novelty nor terror.

"Anything for me, Bill?" asked the boy, half mechanically, with the air
of repeating some jocular formulary perfectly understood by Bill.

"Anythin' for you!" echoed Bill, with an overacted severity equally well
understood by Tommy,--"anythin' for you? No! And it's my opinion there
won't be anythin' for you ez long ez you hang around bar-rooms and spend
your valooable time with loafers and bummers. Git!"

The reproof was accompanied by a suitable exaggeration of gesture
(Bill had seized a decanter) before which the boy retreated still
good-humoredly. Bill followed him to the door. "Dern my skin, if he
hezn't gone off with that bummer Johnson," he added, as he looked down
the road.

"What's he expectin', Bill?" asked the barkeeper.

"A letter from his aunt. Reckon he'll hev to take it out in expectin'.
Likely they're glad to get shut o' him."

"He's leadin' a shiftless, idle life here," interposed the Member of
Assembly.

"Well," said Bill, who never allowed any one but himself to abuse
his protege, "seein' he ain't expectin'