nter loungers gathered round in expectation, as the proprietor
and his assistant busied themselves filling the welcome order.

"Hi, Wayward!" he continued, shouting over to the long-legged man
sitting by the window. "What-ya drinkin'?"

There was no answer.

"Oh, hell!--he's up in the clouds. Take him over a Scotch and soda,
Pete."

Phil looked up in time to intercept a wink between the speaker and one
of his gang.

"Hello, stranger! Just blowed in?"

"Yes!" answered Phil. "I am just off the train."

"Stayin' long?"

"Possibly!"

"All right,--what's your poison? It's my deal and your shout."

"Nothing for me, thanks!" replied Phil. "I've all I require here."

The broad-shouldered, clean-limbed fellow came over closer to Phil.

"Say, young man,--'tain't often Don McGregor stands drinks all
round, but when he does 'tain't good for the health to turn him
down. You've got to have one on me, or you and me ain't goin' to
be friendly,--see."

Phil looked him over good-naturedly and smiled.

"Oh, all right; let her go!" he answered. "I'll have a small
lemonade."

"What?" exploded the man who called himself Don McGregor.

A shout of laughter came from everyone in the bar-room.

"Didn't you ask me to name my drink?" put in Phil.

"Sure!"

"Well--I've named it."

"No, you ain't! Lemonade ain't a drink: it's a bath."

More merriment greeted the sally.

Phil flushed but held down his rising temper. He had had five years'
experience of self-effacement which stood him in good stead now.

"You're not trying to pick a quarrel with me?" he inquired quietly.

"Me? Not on your life! I ain't pickin' scraps with the likes of you.
But, for God's sake, man,--name a man-sized drink and be quick. The
bunch is all waitin'."

Phil immediately changed his tactics.

"Thanks!" he answered. "I'll have a Scotch."

"That's talkin'."

The bar-tender came over with a bottle in his hand. "Say when!" he
remarked to Phil.

"Keep a-going," put in Phil. "Up,--up!"

McGregor stood and gaped.

"That's 'nough!" said Phil easily, as the liquor was brimming over.

The bar-tender pushed along a glass of water. Phil pushed it back.

At a draught he emptied the liquor down his throat. It burned like
red-hot coals, for he was unused to it, but he would have drunk it
down if it had cremated him.

McGregor had made a miscalculation and he appeared slightly
crestfallen as he turned from Phil and talked volubly to his
comrades