Jim Roberts, pallid, puffy-eyed, and trembling visibly, sat there at work, and Thrall, seeing the great trickling drops of perspiration which the slightest effort brought out upon his pasty skin, said: "Jim, either you must give that job up for to-day or you must take a nip to steady your nerves. You can't break short off after being on the rampage as you were yesterday." But Jim lifted miserable eyes, and said, doggedly: "No! She--the Princess--might come in, and notice--" (He had not forgotten that remark about his fondness for cloves.) "She's not at all likely to come in to-day, and if she did, she would only feel sorry for your recklessness." He turned, and, taking a handsome travelling-flask from a shelf, shook it, and smilingly announced: "Half full yet." He poured a pretty stiff drink into a glass, brought it to Jim, and, pointing to water standing on top of the desk, said: "There you are, old man--racer--chaser--everything to your hand, and, for heaven's sake, wipe your dripping face!" Jim swallowed his liquor and resumed his work, asking, querulously: "Where is that chamois skin? I've hunted that infernal thing till my head is all a-buzz." "Go to the box-office and get a new one," said Thrall. "There's a bundle of them in the drawer. Barney will give you one." "No! no!" irritably replied Jim. "I want the one I've been using! I hate a new chamois; besides, how the devil could the thing disappear! I used it on that 'bulldog' of yours a while ago. You're a nice man to own a fine revolver like that, and let it get spotted and ate into with rust. You ought to carry a bargain-counter ninety-nine-and-a-half-cent sort of shooting-iron." Thrall laughed good-temperedly, and, picking up the revolver, said: "Well, you have cleaned and polished and oiled the old thing up in great shape." He stood looking down at the weapon, whose white ivory handle and heavily nickled barrel and trimmings took nothing from its threatening look. Short, thick, heavy, the three-inch double barrel and the wide ugly muzzle were so suggestive that Thrall exclaimed: "By Jove! it's well named, for the bulldog is just what it reminds one of." "Yes," answered Jim, still searching for the mislaid chamois; "that's a dog whose bark is not worse than his bite. Be a little careful, will you! That's a mighty easy trigger, and something less than ten-horse power will cock the thing full. Oh, damn! damn! where is that chamois?" How cruel is the despotism of trifling circumstance! It is humiliating to think that a life's career--nay, even more than that--hung upon the finding or the losing of a dirty bit of leather! Thrall "broke" the revolver to look at the cartridges, somehow expecting to see new ones, and remarked: "Oh, you've returned the old cartridges, I see?"