He stayed four days, and hung about the chuck-shanty nearly the entire time. The baron wanted Frieda to become Mrs. Von Schnitzenhauser. Frieda declined the honor, but she did it in such a way as to give the baron grounds for hope. At any rate, the baron went off whistling “Die Wacht am Rhein,” and so pleased was he with himself, and so wrapped up in his future prospects, that he did not notice the unusual sagging of one of his saddle-bags. The baron rode slowly. He wanted to commune with himself, and a slow pace made it easier--likewise it made it easier for McGowan, Bernritter, and Jacobs to catch up with him. “I vill meed Puffalo Pill in Phœnix,” thought the baron, “und I vill tell him how id vas. I haf peen a flying Dutchman long enough, und if Frieda vill haf me for vorse or pedder, den I vill kevit dis roaming pitzness und seddle down. I vill ged a leedle golt-mine somevere und dig goldt for a lifing, und Frieda vill take care oof der house for me, und eferyt’ing vill be schust so fine as I can’t tell. Py shinks, but I’m a lucky Dutchman!” Just then the baron heard some one yelling at him from behind. He drew rein, and turned in his saddle. “Himmelplitzen!” he muttered. “Dose fellers haf come from der Dree-ply Mine. Vone iss McGowan, who iss a pooty goot feller; und dere iss der suberintendent, who iss not so goot a feller, und Chacops, who iss vorse. Vat iss id dey vant oof me?” While the baron sat his horse and waited, he had a foolish thought that made his heart skip a couple of beats. “Vat oof Frieda has sent dem afder me to say dot she vill haf me, afder all?” the baron fondly asked himself. “Dot’s id, I ped you! Ach, py shimineddy, vat a luck id iss! Oof dere is anypody any blace any habbier dan vat I am, den I don’d know where!” McGowan, Bernritter, and Jacobs came alongside the baron, and stood their horses in a triangle around him. Bernritter and Jacobs had each a hand pushed suggestively under his coat, but the baron was feeling so good with himself that he did not notice these ominous movements. “How you vas, chentlemen?” cried the baron. “Vy you shace afder me like dot, hey? Meppy,” and here he gave a good-natured laugh, “you t’ink I chumped my poard-pill?” “No,” said McGowan, “we don’t think you jumped your board-bill.” “Meppy you t’ink I shtole someding?” went on the baron, shaking with mirth. McGowan cast a startled look at Bernritter and Jacobs. That word “stole” was an unfortunate thing for the baron. “Well,” said McGowan shortly, “did you?” “Yah,” haw-hawed the baron, “you bed you I shtole someding. I shtole der heart oof dot pooty leedle Frieda, und I don’d gif id pack, neider.” “Did you take anything else?” went on McGowan, his eye on the overweighted saddle-bag. “Vell,” jested the baron, “I took my departure. Dot’s aboudt all.” “What’s the matter with that saddle-bag of yours?” The baron looked down at the bag.