No go. The boys was on to Dutchy. They knowed he was the stingiest gezaba in these parts, and wouldn't give away a nickel if he didn't reckon on gittin' six-bits back. So, more fer devilment 'n anythin' else, the most of 'em fooled him some--just loped to the school-house. The parson was plumb tickled. But it didn't last. The next Sunday, the "Life Savin' Station" had Pete Gans up from Apache to deal a little faro. And as it rained hard enough t' keep the women folks away, why, the parson preached to ole man Baker (he's deef), the globe and the chart and the map of South Amuricaw. And almost ev'ry day of the next week, seems like, that purp of Dutchy's everlastin'ly chawed the parson's. The spotted dawg couldn't go past the thirst-parlour, 'r anywheres else. The parson took to fastenin' him up. Then Dutchy'd mosey over towards Hairoil's shack. Out'd come Mister Spots. And one, two, three, the saloon dawg 'd sail into him. Then a piece of news got 'round that must 'a' made the parson madder 'n a wet hen. Dutchy cleaned the barrels outen his hind room and put up a notice that the next Sunday night he'd give a dance. To finish things, the dawgs had a worse fight'n ever Friday mornin', and the parson's lost two spots and a' ear. I seen a change in the parson that evenin'. When he come down to the post-office, them brown eyes of his'n was plumb black, and his face was redder'n Sam Barnes's. "Things is goin' to happen," I says to myself, "'r _I_ ain't no judge of beef." Sunday night, you know, a-course, where the _boys_ went. But I drawed lots with myself and moseyed over to the school-house to keep a bench warm. And here is when that new deal was laid out on the table fer you' little friend Cupid! I slid in and sit down clost to the door. Church wasn't begun yet, and the dozen 'r so of women was a-waitin' quieter'n mice, some of 'em readin' a little, some of 'em leanin' they haids on the desks, and some of 'em kinda peekin' through they fingers t' git the lay of the land. Wal, _I_ stretched my neck,--and made out t' count more'n fifty spit-balls on a life-size chalk drawin' of the school-ma'am. Next thing, the parson was in and a-pumpin' away--all fours--at the organ, and the bunch of us was on our feet a-singin'---- "Yield not to tempta-a-ation, 'Cause yieldin' is sin. Each vic'try----" We'd got about that far when I shut off, all of a suddent, and cocked my haid t' listen. Whose voice was that?--as clear, by thunder! as the bugle up at the Reservation. Wal, sir, I just stood there, mouth wide open. "Some other to win. Strive manfully onwards----" Then, I begun t' look 'round. _Couldn't_ be the Kelly kid's maw (I'd heerd her call the hawgs), ner the teacher, ner that tall lady next her, ner----