The negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle. The Colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his old deliberation. “You're quite right, Jim,” he said, putting down his glass, “but I'm--er--getting old--and--somehow I am missing poor Stryker damnably!” THE LANDLORD OF THE BIG FLUME HOTEL The Big Flume stage-coach had just drawn up at the Big Flume Hotel simultaneously with the ringing of a large dinner bell in the two hands of a negro waiter, who, by certain gyrations of the bell was trying to impart to his performance that picturesque elegance and harmony which the instrument and its purpose lacked. For the refreshment thus proclaimed was only the ordinary station dinner, protracted at Big Flume for three quarters of an hour, to allow for the arrival of the connecting mail from Sacramento, although the repast was of a nature that seldom prevailed upon the traveler to linger the full period over its details. The ordinary cravings of hunger were generally satisfied in half an hour, and the remaining minutes were employed by the passengers in drowning the memory of their meal in “drinks at the bar,” in smoking, and even in a hurried game of “old sledge,” or dominoes. Yet to-day the deserted table was still occupied by a belated traveler, and a lady--separated by a wilderness of empty dishes--who had arrived after the stage-coach. Observing which, the landlord, perhaps touched by this unwonted appreciation of his fare, moved forward to give them his personal attention.