"Ha! Ha!" barked in his ear, and Buck wheeled as if he had been kicked. "That’s Sandy," explained Bow-Wow Baker. "He thinks he ’s some player. An’ he is. There ain’t nothin’ like it between here an’ Salt Lake." "Oh, yes; there is," contradicted Buck. "You an’ him ’s a good team. I bet if you was in th’ same room you ’d set up on yore hind laigs an’ howl." Bow-Wow drew back, abashed. "Set ’em up, Mr. Slick," chuckled the salesman. "Don’t notice him, Cheyenne," advised Chesty in a disgusted aside. "He don’t mean nothin’ by it. It’s just a habit. It’s got so I ’m allus expectin’ him to raise his foot an’ scratch for fleas," and he withered the crestfallen Bow-Wow with a look of scorn. "You was sayin’ as how you was aimin’ to stop here," suggested Ned Monroe, his interest awakened at thought of a rising star so often following the fall of his own. "Yes," acknowledged Buck. "If I find—" Crash! Ding-dong! Ding-dong! The noise of the bell was deafening. Buck set down his glass with extreme care and looked at Slick with an air of helpless wonder, but Bow-Bow was ready with the explanation. "Grub-pile!" he shouted, making for the side door, grasping hold of Chesty’s hand as he went out and dragging that exasperated puncher after him by strength of muscle and purpose. "Come on, Cheyenne! No ’angel-in-th’-pot,’ but a good, square meal, all right." Chesty Sutton cast behind him at Buck a glance of miserable apology, seized the door-frame in passing, and delivered to Bow-Wow a well-placed and energetic kick. Relieved of the drag of Chesty’s protesting weight and with the added impetus of the impact of Chesty’s foot, Bow-Wow shot across the wide hall, struggling frantically to regain his equilibrium, and passed through the door of the dining-room like a quarter-horse with the blind staggers. The bell-ringing ended in a crash of broken crockery, succeeded by a fearful uproar of struggling and profanity. The collie bounded to his feet, his hair bristling along his spine, and rushed at the door with a low growl. Ned caught him by the collar and held him. "Down, Bruce, down!" he commanded, and the dog subsided into menacing growls. Chesty, at the door, snorted in derision. "D—n fool!" he informed those behind him. "He ’s tryin’ to climb th’ table. Hey, Ned; let th’ other dog loose," he suggested, hopefully. By the time the highly entertained group had gathered about the dining-room door, the oaths and imprecations had resolved themselves into a steady railing. Bow-Wow sat sprawled in a chair, gazing in awed silence along the path of wreckage wrought by the flying bell; opposite him, waving a pair of pugnacious fists in close proximity to Bow-Wow’s face, stood Sandy McQueen, proprietor of the Sweet-Echo. It appeared that he was angry and the spectators waited with absorbed expectancy on what would happen next.