No heat of the inward furnace showed in the cool gravity of his face. Sitting at a table in the crowded bar-room of the Sweet-Echo, he seemed intent on mastering the difficulties of a particularly intricate game of solitaire. From time to time some of those at the same table would become interested, only to turn away again, baffled by their lack of knowledge. The usual class of patrons was present, augmented in number, since the spring round-up was at hand and strangers were dropping in every day. Later in the evening, most of those present would gravitate to the lower end of the town where forms of amusement which Sandy McQueen did not countenance, were common. To none of these did Dave give any attention, though he looked with interest at Tex Ewalt when he entered; the increased hum of voices and several loud greetings had taken his mind momentarily from his thoughts. Tex’s reputation had lost nothing in force since the excitement of his advent. Suddenly and for the first time Dave hesitated in his play. He looked fixedly at the Jack of Spades and removed it from the pile where it lay. He paused with it in his hand. The Jack of Spades was in doubt—so was Dave. A querulous voice was damning Buck Peters. "_Donner und Blitzen_! Vas it my fault _der verruchter_ bull break loose _und ist hinaus gegangen_? ’_Yah!_’ says Buck, ’_Yah!_’ loud, like dat. Mad?—_mein gracious_! Vot for is a bull, anyhow? ’Gimme my time,’ I say; ’I go.’ ’Gif you a goot kick,’ says Buck; ’here, dake dis und get drunk und come back _morgen_.’ I get drunk und go back und break his d—n neck—only for leetle Fritz." "Leetle Fritz" sat swinging his legs, on the bar. He looked at his father with plain disapproval. "Ah, cheese it, Pap!" was his advice. "What’s th’ good o’ gittin’ drunk? Why can’t you hol’ y’ likker like a man?" A roar of laughter greeted this appeal, at which even Gerken smiled gleefully. He was glad that Fritz was smart, "_une seine Mutter_." Dave pushed the Jack of Spades back into the pack. He arose and sauntered over to the bar. "That’s th’ way to talk, Pickles," he endorsed, tickling the boy playfully in the ribs. "Yo ’re a-going to hold yore likker like a man, ain’t you?" "No sirree! Ther’ ain’t goin’ to be any likker in mine. I promised mother." "Bully for you!" Dave’s admiration was genuine and the boy blushed at the compliment. Like many other rascals, Dave was easily admitted into the hearts of children and simple folk and women and dogs. Bruce, the collie, was nuzzling his hand at that moment and the broad, foolish face of Gottleib was beaming on him. "Hi, Slick! Pickles ’ll have a lemonade. I ’ll have a lemonade, too; better put a stick in mine, I ’m a-gettin’ so ’s I need one. An’ Pap ’ll have a lemonade, too—oh! with a stick, Pap, with a stick—I would n’t go for to insult your stomach."