“I’m not frightened, sir. You’re not apt to do anything worse to me than I’ve already done to myself. My money is all gone, and you can’t do any more than kill me, if you don’t want money. As for killing me,--well, I have more lead than gold left, and I’ve not forgotten how my father taught me to die, like a gentleman.” I fancied that the boy looked quite the hero as he spoke. There was a little touch of the southron born about him that brought my Kentucky home back to me. I had seen such boys there, and I knew--well, there was one who was something like that, whom I would have given the world to see, and my heart went out to that poor, unfortunate lad. And, yet, for some reason, I had an even kinder feeling for the man who was evidently going to act the friend and adviser of our mutual _protegé_. “Pardon me for even suggesting that you might be frightened,” said the unknown, “but you are young; San Francisco has some queer ways and still queerer people, and it’s not every man who gets the drop on you who means well. I am free to say that I should be uneasy myself, were I to be similarly accosted, and they say I am--well, that I’m ‘no chicken’, you know. Where are you from, my boy?” “I’m from Virginia, sir,” replied the boy, straightening up with a little of the Old Dominion pride, I thought. “Ah!” exclaimed his new-found friend, “I was sure I detected a little of the old cavalier strain in your face. What is your name, may I ask?” “Gordon Cabell, sir.” “Well, Master Cabell, I know your breed pretty well; I’m from--well, I’ve met southern boys before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly to you, and you mustn’t be offended. I’m going to be your friend, for to-night, at least, and you must listen to me. “I’m not going to give you a moral lecture on gambling or liquor drinking. I presume that the Gordons, Cabells, and many more of your ancestors, have played cards, drunk whisky, raced horses, attended cock fights, and fought duels, and have done many other things that people with colder blood object to, but they did all these things like gentlemen, I’ll warrant you. Now, tell me, young fellow, did you ever know of a Cabell doing what you have done, and still worse, what you were going to do to-night?” “Sir!” said the boy indignantly, reaching toward his pistol, “I will--” “Oh, no you won’t, Master Cabell. Look me in the eye, please!” and the boy gazed at the stranger wonderingly, as he drew his tall form up to its full height, calmly folded his arms, and looked down upon him. “I have already told you that I am your friend, Gordon, and the Cabells do not make targets of their friends. Give me your pistol, sir!” The boy almost mechanically drew his pistol from the holster beneath his loose-fitting coat, and obeying the mandate of a will more powerful than his own, handed it to his companion. “Thank you, Gordon,” said the stranger, “I’ll return it to you presently.