It was also well that Bill's momentary attitude of didactic propriety was not further excited by the subsequent conduct of his protege. For by this time Tom, half supporting the unstable Johnson, who developed a tendency to occasionally dash across the glaring road, but checked himself mid way each time, reached the corral which adjoined the Mansion House. At its farther extremity was a pump and horse-trough. Here, without a word being spoken, but evidently in obedience to some habitual custom, Tom led his companion. With the boy's assistance, Johnson removed his coat and neckcloth, turned back the collar of his shirt, and gravely placed his head beneath the pump-spout. With equal gravity and deliberation, Tom took his place at the handle. For a few moments only the splashing of water and regular strokes of the pump broke the solemnly ludicrous silence. Then there was a pause in which Johnson put his hands to his dripping head, felt of it critically as if it belonged to somebody else, and raised his eyes to his companion. “That ought to fetch IT,” said Tom, in answer to the look. “Ef it don't,” replied Johnson, doggedly, with an air of relieving himself of all further responsibility in the matter, “it's got to, thet's all!” If “it” referred to some change in the physiognomy of Johnson, “it” had probably been “fetched” by the process just indicated. The head that went under the pump was large, and clothed with bushy, uncertain-colored hair; the face was flushed, puffy, and expressionless, the eyes injected and full. The head that came out from under the pump was of smaller size and different shape, the hair straight, dark, and sleek, the face pale and hollow-cheeked, the eyes bright and restless. In the haggard, nervous ascetic that rose from the horse-trough there was very little trace of the Bacchus that had bowed there a moment before. Familiar as Tom must have been with the spectacle, he could not help looking inquiringly at the trough, as if expecting to see some traces of the previous Johnson in its shallow depths. A narrow strip of willow, alder, and buckeye--a mere dusty, ravelled fringe of the green mantle that swept the high shoulders of Table Mountain--lapped the edge of the corral. The silent pair were quick to avail themselves of even its scant shelter from the overpowering sun. They had not proceeded far, before Johnson, who was walking quite rapidly in advance, suddenly brought himself up, and turned to his companion with an interrogative “Eh?” “I didn't speak,” said Tommy, quietly. “Who said you spoke?” said Johnson, with a quick look of cunning. “In course you didn't speak, and I didn't speak, neither. Nobody spoke. Wot makes you think you spoke?” he continued, peering curiously into Tommy's eyes. The smile which habitually shone there quickly vanished as the boy stepped quietly to his companion's side, and took his arm without a word.