“Of course, of course,” said Quong Lung, looking at the point of his cigar and crossing his knees. “The See Yups have need of strong men, and who so strong as Wau Shun! Drink once more to thy worthiness.” After they had disposed of the liquor and smoked awhile, Wau Shun said, familiarly and half-insolently: “Quong Lung, thou owest me reparation for thy insults of two nights ago; and seeing thou art seated on the chair of humiliation” (here Wau Shun lapsed into impudent vernacular), “you must needs do as I say or be twisted out of shape.” “What!” exclaimed Quong Lung, putting one hand carelessly behind his head and resting the other against the adjacent wall, whereon was a painted panel that glowed with cherries--“what! wouldst thou plague me?” “Nay, but I would discipline you,” said Wau Shun, thickly; “I would discipline you with cramps, if need were.” “And cramps only?” asked Quong Lung, toying with the flower-painted panel. “’Twere dangerous to play with me so lightly. Cramps can not touch me and are for fools alone.” “Then I would kill you otherwise, smooth, fat hog!” “Have at thee, Wau Shun!” exclaimed Quong Lung, fiercely, pressing the fatal cherry; and Wau Shun, sitting in the corner of the gorgeous chair, stiffened into a frightful attitude, and then began writhing dreadfully. To the heavy, punk-laden atmosphere of the room was added an odor of burning flesh. Quong Lung rose from his seat and crossed the room to where his victim was being electrocuted. “Ho, ho, ho!” he laughed softly; “excellent Jim, most excellent Jim!” As he watched the grim murder enacting before him, he saw, reflected in the mirror behind the chair of doom, the door that led into the room slowly open, and James Ray and a detective well known to Quong Lung entered swiftly. “Throw up your hands, Quong Lung!” commanded the officer, as he covered the Chinaman with his pistol. Taken in the midst of his crime, Quong Lung started and, backing against the fatal chair, he fell on the seat beside his victim, with a yell, as the tremendous current shot through him, killing him instantly. “Turn off the current, Ray. For God’s sake, be quick!” shouted the officer, as the bodies writhed and twisted on the chair of death. “Yes, yes,” came the leisurely reply, as Ray took the tuberose from the flower-stand; “there will be plenty of time after I have removed this sweet tenderling from this horrible atmosphere.” A DOUBLE SHOT By Stewart Edward White Pat McCann came up from the plains into the hills in a bad humor with himself and the world. He had tried to be a cow-puncher and had been promptly bucked off; he had tackled the cooking problem and only escaped mobbing by resigning his job; now he had dragged his little, squab form, with its hanging arms, up into the hills to try mining. He applied to the first camp he came to. King, the foreman, gave him a job.