"Why, open up the bag and take out a dollar and I'll do the same." Which plan was agreed upon. "Here's four bits for you and here's four bits for me. Now, here's a dollar for you and here's a dollar for me, and here is two bits for you and here's two bits for me." Just then one of the youngsters pulled on his mother's skirts, and down tumbled the coin, necessitating a new division. The money was put back into the bag and the same system started over again, only to be found impracticable. Several gold pieces gleamed in the bag, one being a double "sawbuck," as Dixie fantastically described it. There appeared to be no end to the disputes arising, when Conductor Stroud was appealed to for some of his wisdom in aiding a settlement. The conductor had a merry twinkle in his eye when he suggested that he would be fair to both sides, but they must agree not to appeal from his method of adjustment, which was readily consented to. Taking the bag in his hands, Mr. Stroud tied up the opening, then beginning in the middle he worked one-half of the coins as nearly as could be guessed to each end which left a place in the middle of the bag, around which he securely tied a string, thus making two compartments in the bag. "Now, we will toss up a copper and see who has first choice." This was harmoniously done and producing a huge pocket knife, the bag was cut in two at the point where the string was tied. "This is what I call 'Knifin' de dough,'" laughed the jolly conductor. Each one of the bairns was allowed to slip his or her hand in the bag and take out all it would hold. "I wish I had a hand like a ham," cried Gordon. "Yes, and I picked out the double eagle," triumphantly exclaimed Miss Dixie, and all were made happy. Semi-annual dividends by our streetcar systems usually bring gladness to the already bloated stockholder, but they never can experience the exquisite joy that these two families had in "Knifin' de dough" on their annual pilgrimage to the State Fair. Illustration: End of Chapter 16. A MUSICAL ABORIGINE. The train from the East, bearing a long string of loaded coaches, had stopped at Wallula for dinner and amid the din of the sounding gong in the hand of a burly negro, the passengers alighted to partake of the Willis' bill of fare. This was an important hour in the day for the little band of Umatilla Indians who gathered around the station to sell their curios to the tenderfoot passenger. The captain of these remnants of a once mighty nation was Hawkeye, a fine specimen of the Indian genus homo. Hawkeye leaned on the corner of the station dressed in a becoming Indian garb, looking every inch a warrior. Some of the passengers were walking up and down the platform, among them being a man from Boston accompanied by his 19-year-old daughter, who was a most enthusiastic observer of the country they were passing through and the people whom they met.