“A little more such talk and yuh won’t have to be a actor to get breakfast in bed,” states Chuck. “Keep it up, and you’ll have all your meals in bed. If you wants to hear me say what I think about you being a actor you got to come outside. I got too much respect for the bunk-house to express myself here.” This day being Monday, we has to put up with that kind of conversation until Tuesday afternoon, when Chuck opines that he’s going up to Piperock. Chuck can’t stand prosperity, and Tuesday is payday. He’s a roulette fiend, and he runs into bad luck every time he bucks a wheel in Paradise, so he wearies his bronc with monthly trips to Piperock. Once he won eight dollars up there. It cost him forty but he never figured that side of the ledger. Anyway we wishes him many happy returns of the day, and he lopes away. As he forks his bronc he grins at Telescope, and says: “To be a good actor, yuh got to imagine you’re the party you’re imitating. Just think you’re ‘Slippery’ Silverton, Telescope. He’s a good pattern to go by. Sabe?” Slippery sure ain’t no imitation. He’s had the Montana officers buffaloed for so long that they think he’s more than one man. The accumulated rewards for him look like the weekly clean-up at the U. S. mint. Me and Muley wishes to see the proceedings, so we rides down to Paradise the next day with Telescope, and has converse with Archibald Ames. He squints at the sky and shakes his head. “I doubt it,” says he. “Too cloudy. Yuh can’t get snappy stuff in atmosphere like this, and there can’t be no retake. We’ll let her go until tomorrow. I may set up after a while and get some character stuff. Lots of local color around here. Good characters, and the background is great. Know what I mean?” “Perfectly,” says I. “Sheep-herders and so forth.” Telescope opines that old man Bowers’ ranch is calling him, so a little later on he rides away, he and Muley horns into a poker game, and about an hour later Archibald Ames invades the place and leans against the bar. Mike Pelly leaves the table to serve him, but Archie ain’t dry. He asks a question— “Can you tell me where I can get some raw beef?” He turns to us, and we sees the most wonderful black eye yuh ever seen. “Holy henhawks!” I snorts. “What yuh been doing?” “I’ll tell yuh,” snorts “Doughgod” Smith, from the doorway. “He’s been exhibiting his danged ignorance. He opines to get a picture of a shepherd and he picked me!” “Doughgod ain’t no shepherd,” I explains to Archie. “This is a —— of a time to tell me!” wails Archie, and he goes across the street to a restaurant. The next we sees of him he’s taking a picture of a rackful of broncs and then he goes over and photygrafts a greaser kid and a dog. * * * * *