then, either. And it might be
onhandy for him if he was asked to preach, while a smart horse-thief has
naturally got some of the p'ints of a real sheriff about him."

"You insist upon it that he's my prisoner," said the preacher, tugging
away at his knot, "and I insist upon the circuit-rider story. And,"
continued the young man, with one mighty pull at the knot, "he's _got_
to be a circuit-rider, and I'm going to make one of him. Do you hear
that, young man? I'm the man that's setting you free and giving you to
your father!"

"You can make anything you please out of me," said the prisoner. "Only
hurry!"

"As you say, parson," remarked the sheriff, with admirable meekness;
"he's _your_ prisoner, but I _could_ make a splendid deputy out of him
if you'd let him take my advice. And I'd agree to work for his
nomination for my place when my term runs out. Think of what he might
get to be!--there _has_ sheriffs gone to the Legislature, and I've heard
of one that went to Congress."

"Circuit-riders get higher than that, sometimes," said the preacher,
leading his prisoner toward old Wardelow's cabin; "they get as high as
heaven!"

"Oh!" remarked the sheriff, and gave up the contest.

Both men accompanied the prisoner toward his father's house. The
preacher began to deliver some cautionary remarks, but the young man
burst from him, threw open the door, and shouted:

"Father!"

The old man started from his bed, shaded his eyes, and exclaimed:

"Stevie!"

The father and son embraced, seeing which the sheriff proved that even
sheriffs are human by snatching the circuit-rider in his arms and giving
him a mighty hug.

* * * * *

The father recovered and lived happily. The son and the preacher
fulfilled their respective promises, and the sheriff, always, on meeting
either of them, so abounded in genial winks and effusive handshakings,
that he nearly lost his next election by being suspected of having
become religious himself.

[Illustration]

TOM CHAFFLIN'S LUCK.

"Luck? Why, I never seed anything like it! Yer might give him the
sweepin's of a saloon to wash, an' he'd pan out a nugget ev'ry time--do
it ez shure as shootin'!"

This rather emphatic speech proceeded one day from the lips of Cairo
Jake, an industrious washer of the golden sands of California; but it
was evident to all intelligent observers that even language so strong as
to seem almost figurative did not fully e