“What’ll you give me not to?” inquired Lin, and he put his hands in his pockets, arms akimbo. “Nothing; I’ve done nothing,” announced Billy, firmly. But even in the last syllable his voice suddenly failed, a terror filled his eyes, and he, too, sped into the middle of the street. “What’s he claim you lifted?” inquired the leader, with eagerness. “Tell him you haven’t been inside a store to-day. We can prove it!” they screamed to the special officer. [Illustration: Border] “Say,” said the slow-spoken Lin from the pavement, “you’re poor judges of a badge, you fellows.” His tone pleased them where they stood, wide apart from each other. Mr. McLean also remained stationary in the bluish illumination of the window. “Why, if any policeman was caught wearin’ this here,” said he, following his sprightly invention, “he’d get arrested himself.” This struck them extremely. They began to draw together, Billy lingering the last. “If it’s your idea,” pursued Mr. McLean, alluringly, as the three took cautious steps nearer the curb, “that blue, clasped hands in a circle of red stars gives the bearer the right to put folks in the jug—why, I’ll get somebody else to black my boots for a dollar.” [Illustration: Border] The three made a swift rush, fell on simultaneous knees, and, clattering their boxes down, began to spit in an industrious circle. “Easy!” wheedled Mr. McLean, and they looked up at him, staring and fascinated. “Not having three feet,” said the cow-puncher, always grave and slow, “I can only give two this here job.” “He’s got a big pistol and a belt!” exulted the leader, who had precociously felt beneath Lin’s coat. “You’re a smart boy,” said Lin, considering him, “and yu’ find a man out right away. Now you stand off and tell me all about myself while they fix the boots—and a dollar goes to the quickest through.” [Illustration: Border] Young Billy and his tow-headed competitor flattened down, each to a boot, with all their might, while the leader ruefully contemplated Mr. McLean. “That’s a Colt forty-five you’ve got,” ventured he. “Right again. Some day, maybe, you’ll be wearing one of your own, if the angels don’t pull yu’ before you’re ripe.” “I’m through!” sang out Towhead, rising in haste. Small Billy was struggling still, but leaped at that, the two heads bobbing to a level together; and Mr. McLean, looking down, saw that the arrangement had not been a good one for the boots. [Illustration: Border] “Will you kindly referee,” said he, forgivingly, to the leader, “and decide which of them smears is the awfulest?” But the leader looked the other way and played upon a mouth-organ. “Well, that saves me money,” said Mr. McLean, jingling his pocket. “I guess you’ve both won.” He handed each of them a dollar. “Now,” he continued, “I just dassent show these boots up-town; so this time it’s a dollar for the best shine.”