During the two years and more that Clarence Vincent tarried at Maricopa Wells, he made the acquaintance of pretty nearly the entire Indian tribe in that section and when he left to accept the managership of the Phoenix office he was given a genuine Indian farewell. A year or so later Clarence Vincent had become one of the leading citizens in Arizona's metropolis; he had renounced the frontier garb worn by the denizens of the Wells, and donned in its stead a faultless tailor-made suit, and he was quite a Beau Brummel in Phoenix society, where he was thought the "proper caper" by the young ladies. The Indians of Maricopa Wells still took advantage of the indulgence of the railroad company and pursued their migratory practices. One day Clarence Vincent started for lunch and noticed at a nearby fruit and confectionery store a crowd of some twenty-five Indians, mostly squaws with papooses swung over their backs and some young Indian maidens. He passed them by without giving them any attention, but not so the Indians; they had recognized in him the telegraph operator of Maricopa Wells, and with many guttural "Ugh, Ugh, Ugh's" they followed him down the street single file to his favorite restaurant, where they stood on guard on the outside, varying their watch by pressing their noses to the window panes in true Indian style. Young Vincent was greatly chagrined with so much attention and consideration from his former playmates of the oasis, but he was reluctant to introduce these simple children to the select society in which he moved, and he compromised the matter by buying them one and all, a box of bon bons at the nearest confectionery store. This incident occurred many years ago, but Mr. Vincent, now the dignified and courteous manager of the Western Union Telegraph Company, of Oakland, Cal., loves to linger over the memory of the happy days he spent in Arizona. A GOVERNOR FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES TOOK THE BULL BY THE HORNS. It was ten minutes past the midnight hour; the last train for the night had pulled out, and J. Frank Howell, the night operator at Tin Cup, Ariz., began preparations for a little rest. It was in the month of August, and the full harvest moon beamed down through the clear atmosphere resplendent and as bright almost as the midday sun. Glancing out towards the south trail Howell could see a horseman coming at full speed towards the lonely station. A few minutes later an active, fine looking man hurried in. "I have a very important telegram to send to the Governor. I must get an answer in half an hour or an innocent man perishes. Come, do all you can and as quickly as you can!" The speaker was Lee Henniger, the sheriff of Dos Cabezas. He had ridden forty miles since nine o'clock over the sandy desert to Tin Cup hoping to obtain a reprieve for Bob Beecher, who was under sentence to die at daybreak for murder.