Mr. Broady had found a nugget a few days before, and, in his exultation, had ceased work and become a regular member of the bar. A week’s industrious drinking developed in him that peculiar amiability and humanity which is characteristic of cheap whisky, and as Pet was small, ugly and alone, Broady commenced working off on him his own superfluous energy. Poor Pet’s resistance only increased the fury of Broady, and the family at Pawkin Centre seemed in imminent danger of being supported by the town, when suddenly a pair of enormous stubby hands seized Broady by the throat, and a harsh voice, which Pet joyfully recognized as Grump’s, exclaimed: “Let him go, or I’ll tear yer into mince-meat, curse yer!” The chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers was not in the habit of obeying orders, but Grump’s hands imparted to his command considerable moral force. No sooner, however, had Broady extricated himself from Grump’s grasp than he drew his revolver and fired. Grump fell, and the chief of the Jolly Grasshoppers, his injured dignity made whole, walked peacefully away. The sound of the shot brought up all the boys from below. “They’ve fit!” gasped the doubter, catching his breath as he ran, “an’ the boy—boy’s hed to—lay him out. It seemed as if the doubter might be right, for the boys found Grump lying on the ground bleeding badly, and the Pet on his hands and knees. “How did it come ’bout?” asked the colonel of Pet. “Broady done it,” replied Grump, in a hoarse whisper; “he pounded the boy, and I tackled him—then he fired.” The doubter went around and raised the dying man’s head. Pet seemed collecting all his energies for some great effort; finally he asked: “What made you pour your dust into my pouch?” “‘Cause,” whispered the dying man, putting one arm about Pet’s neck, and drawing him closer, “_‘cause I’m yer dad_; give this to yer mar,” and on Pet’s homely face the ugliest man at Painter Bar put the first token of human affection ever displayed in that neighborhood. The arm relaxed its grasp and fell loosely, and the red eyes closed. The experienced colonel gazed into the upturned face, and gently said: “Pet, yer an orphan.” Reverently the boys carried the dead man into his own hut. Several men dug a grave beside that of Perkins, while the colonel and doubter acted as undertakers, the latter donating his only white shirt for a shroud. This duty done, they went to the saloon, and the doubter called up the crowd. The glasses filled, the doubter raised his own, and exclaimed: “Boys, here’s corpse—corpse is the best-looking man in camp.” And so he was. For the first time in his wretched life his soul had reached his face, and the Judge mercifully took him while he was yet in His own image.