Farther along, at the base of the almost perpendicular cliff, Hoag found fifty or sixty men waiting for him. Some lay smoking on the grass, others hung about in various restless attitudes, and a group of ten or twelve of the younger men sat eating tinned oysters and sardines with crackers, and drinking whisky from huge flasks which stood on the ground in their midst. A man on the edge of the assembly recognized the leader, and saluting respectfully, called out, “Boys, rise; the Captain is here!” Thereupon a formality took place which to Hoag had always been a subtle delight. Those standing removed their hats, and all who were seated struggled to their feet and stood silent and uncovered. “How are you, boys?” That constituted Hoag's usual greeting, and then every one sat down, and for a moment silence ensued. There was a fallen log on the border of the assemblage, and upon this the leader sat as if upon a judicial bench. He put his hat on the grass at his feet and folded his hands between his knees. There was a low tinkle of a knife-blade gouging out potted ham from a jagged tin, and Hoag drew himself erect and frowned. “Let up on that eatin' thar!” he said, testily. “One thing at a time. I've had a hard ride to git up here, an' I'll be treated with proper respect or--” “You be damned!” a low voice muttered, and a soft titter of startled approval rose in the group of younger men and slowly died in the consternation which' Hoag's fierce attitude seemed to set afloat upon the air. “Who said that?” he sharply demanded, and he half rose to his feet and leaned forward in a threatening attitude. There was no response. Hoag, standing fully erect now, repeated his question, but the surly demand elicited only a repetition of the tittering and a low, defiant groan. Hoag slowly and reluctantly resumed his seat. “I'm goin' to have order an' obedience,” he growled. “That's what I'm here for, an' anybody that wants trouble can git it. This is _me_ a-talkin'.” The silence was unbroken now and, somewhat mollified, Hoag proceeded to the business of the night. “Mr. Secretary,” he said, “call the roll, an' make careful note of absentees an' impose fines.” A man holding a bit of lighted candle and a sheet of paper stood up and went through this formality. “How many missin'?” Hoag inquired, when the roll-call was over and the candle extinguished. “Seven, not countin' Sid Trawley,” was the response. “Cold feet--seven more beyond the age-limit!” a wag in the younger group was heard to say in a maudlin and yet defiant tone. “Order thar!” Hoag commanded in a stentorian voice. “Gone to nigger prayer-meetin',” another boldly muttered, and Hoag stamped his foot and called for order again. “What have we got before the body?” he inquired, in agreement with his best idea of parliamentary form. “Do I hear any proposals?”