ing the
revolutions six times with startling suddenness. Mr. Quilty watched him
sourly.

"Play thricks!" he commented. "Spin a gun! Huh! Why don't yez get a job
wid a dhrama that shows the West as it used to wasn't? I knowed wan iv
thim gun twirlers wanst. He was a burrd pluggin' tomatty cans an'
such--a fair wonder he was. But wan day he starts to make a pinwheel iv
his finger forninst a stranger he mistakes fer a tindherfut, an' he
gets th' face iv him blowed in be a derringer from that same stranger's
coat pocket."

"Sure," McHale agreed. "It was comin' to him. He should have stuck to
tomatter cans. Them plays is plumb safe."

"They's no safe play wid a gun," Mr. Quilty declared oracularly. "I'm
an owlder man nor ye, an' I worked me way West wid railway
construction. I knowed th' owld-time gunmen--the wans they tell stories
of. Where are they now? Dead, ivery mother's son iv thim, an' most iv
thim got it from a gun. No matther how quick a man is, if he kapes at
ut long enough he meets up wid some felly that bates him till
it--wanst. And wanst is enough.

"Plenty," McHale agreed. "Sure. The system is not to meet that sport. I
don't figure he lives in these parts."

Mr. Quilty blinked at him for a moment, and lowered his voice. "See,
now, b'y," said he, "I'm strong for mindin' me own business, but a
wink's as good as a nod to a blind horse. Nobody's been hurted
hereabouts yet, but keep at ut and some wan will be. I don't want ut to
be you or Casey. Go aisy, like a good la-ad."

"I'm easy as a fox-trot," said McHale. "So's Casey. We ain't crowdin'
nothin'. Only we're some tired of havin' a hot iron held to our hides.
We sorter hate to smell our own hair singein'. We ain't on the prod,
but we don't aim to be run off our own range, and that goes as it
lies."

He rose, flipping his cigarette through the open window, and inquired
for freight. They were expecting a binder and a mower. These had not
arrived. McHale looked at the date of his bill of lading, and stated
his opinion of the railway.

"Be ashamed, bawlin' out me employers in me prisince," said Mr. Quilty.
"G'wan out o' here, before I take a shotgun to yez."

"Come up and have a drink," McHale invited.

"Agin' the rules whin on duty," Quilty refused. "An' I do be on duty
whiniver I'm awake. 'Tis prohibition the comp'ny has on me, no less."

McHale rode up the straggling street to Shiller's hotel, and
dismounted. Bob Shiller in shirt sleeves sat on the