ke's
saloon, and the guests were self-invited. Their toilets, though unusual,
scarcely require description, and a list of their diversions would not
interest people of taste Refreshments were as plentiful as at Mrs.
Wader's, and, after the manner of refreshments everywhere, they caused a
general unbending of spirits. Not all the effects were pleasing to
contemplate. One of them was a pistol-shot, which, missing the man for
whom it was intended, struck a person called Baggs, and remarkable only
for general worthlessness. Baggs had a physical system of the
conventional type, however, and the bullet caused some disarrangement so
radical in its nature, that Baggs was soon stretched upon the floor of
the saloon, with a face much whiter than he usually wore. The barkeeper
poured out a glass of brandy, and passed it over the bar, but the
wounded man declined it; he also rejected a box of pills which was
proffered. An Ender, who claimed to have been a physician, stooped over
the victim, felt his pulse, and remarked:

"Baggs, you're a goner."

"I know it," said Baggs; "and I want to be prayed for."

The barkeeper looked puzzled. He was a public-spirited man, whose heart
and pocket were open to people in real trouble, but for prayers he had
never been asked before, and, was entirely destitute of them. He felt
relieved when one of his customers--a leaden-visaged man, with bulbous
nose and a bad temper--advanced toward the wounded man, raised one hand,
threw his head back a trifle, and exclaimed:

"Once in grace, always in grace. I've _been_ there, I know. Let us
pray."

The victim waived his hand impatiently, and faintly exclaimed:

"_You_ won't do; somebody that's better acquainted with God than _you_
are must do it."

"But, Baggs," reasoned the barkeeper, "perhaps he's been a
preacher--you'd better not throw away a chance."

"Don't care if he has," whispered Baggs; "he don't look like any of the
prayin' people mother used to know."

The would-be petitioner took his rebuff considerably to heart, and
began, in a low and rapid voice, an argument with himself upon the
duration of the state of grace. The Enders listened but indifferently,
however; the dying man was more interesting to them than living
questions, for he had no capacity for annoyance. The barkeeper scratched
his head and pinched his brow, but, gaining no idea thereby, he asked:

"Do _you_ know the right man, Baggs?"

"Not here, I don't," gasped the suffer