The two went palpitating at their brushes again, and the leader played his mouth-organ with brilliant unconcern. Lin, tall and brooding, leaned against the jutting sill of the window, a figure somehow plainly strange in town, while through the bright plate-glass Santa Claus, holding out his beer and sausages, perpetually beamed. [Illustration: Border] Billy was laboring gallantly, but it was labor, the cow-puncher perceived, and Billy no seasoned expert. “See here,” said Lin, stooping, “I’ll show yu’ how it’s done. He’s playin’ that toon cross-eyed enough to steer anybody crooked. There. Keep your blacking soft and work with a dry brush.” “Lemme,” said Billy. “I’ve got to learn.” So he finished the boot his own way with wiry determination, breathing and repolishing; and this event was also adjudged a dead heat, with results gratifying to both parties. So here was their work done, and more money in their pockets than from all the other boots and shoes of this day; and Towhead and Billy did not wish for further trade, but to spend this handsome fortune as soon as might be. Yet they delayed in the brightness of the window, drawn by curiosity near this new kind of man whose voice held them and whose remarks dropped them into constant uncertainty. Even the omitted leader had been unable to go away and nurse his pride alone. [Illustration: Border] “Is that a secret society?” inquired Towhead, lifting a finger at the badge. Mr. McLean nodded. “Turruble,” said he. “You’re a Wells Fargo detective,” asserted the leader. “Play your harp,” said Lin. “Are you a—a desperaydo?” whispered Towhead. “Oh, my!” observed Mr. McLean, sadly; “what has our Jack been readin’?” “He’s a cattle-man!” cried Billy. “I seen his heels.” [Illustration: Border] “That’s you!” said the discovered puncher, with approval. “You’ll do. But I bet you can’t tell me what we wearers of this badge have sworn to do this night.” At this they craned their necks and glared at him. “We—are—sworn (don’t yu’ jump, now, and give me away)—sworn—to—blow off three bootblacks to a dinner.” “Ah, pshaw!” They backed away, bristling with distrust. “That’s the oath, fellows. Yu’ may as well make your minds up—_for I have it to do_!” “Dare you to! Ah!” “And after dinner it’s the Opera-house, to see ‘The Children of Captain Grant’!” They screamed shrilly at him, keeping off beyond the curb. [Illustration: Border] “I can’t waste my time on such, smart boys,” said Mr. McLean, rising to his full height from the window-sill. “I am going somewhere to find boys that ain’t so turruble quick stampeded by a roast turkey.”