Shepard, a bushy-browed man with keen eyes, whose heels were at the moment lifted to the top of the desk, looked at the card, then at the little man. Though he had seen Tim Benson, there was no recognition in his eyes. “Well, what is it?” he asked. “You can see by that I am a representative of the San Francisco _Oracle_,” said the little man quietly. “I am studying the prison systems of the West, and want to look this one over. When I publish my article I shall have a good word to say of you personally, I hope.” “Never heard of this hyer San Francisco _Oracle_,” said Shepard severely, though his tone was milder than before. “Well, it’s the leading paper of its kind in the city of San Francisco,” the little man assured him. “Sorry I neglected to bring a copy with me, but I have some down at the Eagle House, and will see that you have one. In last week’s issue I had a write-up of the Comstock Mine, at Virginia City.” “When will this hyer write-up come out?” said the jailer, flattered and interested. “In two weeks, if I can get the copy in on time, and I think I can. I’ve got to look at the prisons at Deming and Nueces first; but that can be done yet this week.” “Well, what do you want me to do?” “Simply conduct me through the prison, or such parts of it as you wish to show me; and I’d like a look at some of the most notorious of the prisoners you’ve got in here. A little spicy talk about them will help to give my write-up the necessary tang.” Shepard didn’t know what “tang” was, but it sounded well. So he tumbled. He got out of his comfortable chair, grumbling a little, but more than ever pleased, for he had the usual vanity of men of his class; and a few minutes later he was piloting Mr. Osgood Fleming--that was the name on the card--through the prison of Blossom Range. It was a new prison, with strong walls; as good as could be found within five hundred miles; Shepard knew that, and was proud of it. Proud he was, likewise, of the fact that he was the sheriff of the county, and by virtue of it keeper of this magnificent jail. “We’ve got a mighty fine assortment of jailbirds in hyer right now,” he said, warming up under the influence of the ingratiating manner of the polite little man. “Road agents, murderers, horse thieves--y’ can’t name any of that class o’ criminals we ain’t got. Last one put in was Juniper Joe. He was the real ringer out of all of ’em; took the hull blamed town in in the neatest way y’ could ever think of.” He had to tell the whole story, it seemed so good to him, even if it was at the expense of Blossom Range. The narrative so interested the little man that he insisted he must see this “graceless scamp,” and, if possible, have a talk with him. “You can talk with him through the bars of his cell, standin’ outside,” said the jailer, who was of the honest kind. “Against the rules, ye see, to do otherwise, when a man is in hyer on a charge of murder.”