"Have you, indeed?" mocked Mike, well up to his lay. "I'm glad to have you mention it. See here, pardner." He slapped the sheet of paper flat on the bar, under Cassidy's astonished eyes. "Do you figure this is your name at the bottom, or don't you?" he demanded in peremptory tones. Cassidy frowned and regarded the paper. Then, as the words swam and blurred together in one long, discouraging line, he weakly gave it up. "Wot's it say, Mike?" he asked feebly. "This here paper says," responded the other, with the cold, forceful air of one well within his rights, "that last night you sold me your teams and your outfit--fer a consideration. Of course, now, I ain't sayin' just what you done with the consideration I give you. Mebbe you spent it like a gent fer booze, mebbe you was foolish and went to some strong-arm shack and got rolled. I dunno; I can't say. All I know is that you got your money and I got the outfit. Savvy?" Cassidy's face took on a queer, pasty white. His hands clawed ineffectively at the bar. "Sold you my _outfit_?" he quavered, with an awful break in his voice. "_Sold it_, Mike? Why, how do you figure that?" "Is that your name?" barked Mike in answer. He thrust the paper out at arm's length and shook it under Cassidy's nose with astonishing ferocity. "Just you say one little short word, friend. Is that your name, or isn't it?" Cassidy wavered. It was unquestionably his name; whether _he_ had written it there or not was yet to be decided. If psychological moments come to the Cassidys, this one felt such a thing near him. _Now_ was the time for him to leap in the air and pound wrathfully upon the bar. _Now_ was the instant for him to rush into the open and call vociferously on his friends. _Now_ was the fraction of a second left for him to reach out his hard knuckles and pin Mike to the wall and tear the paper from his hands. But instead, and with a queer feeling of aloofness from it all, much as if he were the helpless spectator of activities proceeding in some fantastic dream, he felt the moment thrilling up to him; felt it stand obediently waiting; felt himself slowly gathering in response to its mute query; then felt himself drop helplessly back into a stupid coma of whisky fumes and sodden inertia. When he came to, Mike had put the paper back in his till and was assiduously cleaning up his bar. It was all over.