"Thank the Lord!" said Buffle. His lips were very familiar with the name of the Lord, but they had never before used it in this sense. Then, while several men were getting ready to ask Buffle where he found his man--Californians never ask questions in a hurry--there came from the direction of Buffle's shanty the sound of a subdued cry. "Gentlemen," said the barkeeper, "there's no more drinking at this bar to-night until--until I say so." No one murmured. No one swore. No one suggested a game. An old enemy of Buffle's happened in, but that worthy, instead of feeling for his pistol, quietly left the leaning-post, and bowed his enemy into it. The boys stood and sat about, studied the cracks in the floor, the pattern of the shutters, contemplated the insides of their hats, and chewed tobacco as if their lives depended on it. Buffle made frequent trips to the door, and looked out. Suddenly he closed the door, and had barely time to whisper, "No noise, now, or I'll shoot," when the doctor walked in. The crowd arose. "It's all right, gentlemen," said the doctor--"as fine a boy as I ever saw." "My treat for the rest of the evening, boys," said the barkeeper, hurriedly crowding glasses and bottles on the bar. "Her," "Him," "Him, Junior," "Buffle," "Doc.," and "Old Rockershop," as some happily inspired miner dubbed little Muggy, were drunk successively. The door opened again, and in walked Allan Berryn. Glancing quickly about, he soon distinguished Buffle. He grasped his hand, looked him steadily in the eye, and exclaimed: "Buffle, you--" He was a Harvard graduate, and a fine talker, was Allan Berryn, but, when he had spoken two words, he somehow forgot the remainder of the speech he had made up on his way over; his silence for two or three seconds seemed of hours to every man who looked on his face, so that it was a relief to all when he gave Buffle a mighty hug, and then precipitately retreated. Buffle looked sheepish, and shook himself. "That feller can outhug a grizzly," said he. "Boys," he continued, "that chap's been buckin' agin luck sence he's been in the diggin's, an' is clean busted. But his luck begun to turn this evening, an' here's what goes for keepin' the ball a-rollin'. Here's my ante;" saying which, he laid his old hat on the bar, took out his buckskin bag of gold-dust, and emptied it into the hat. Bags came out of pockets all around, and were either entirely emptied, or had their contents largely diminished by knife-blades, which scooped out the precious dust, and dropped it into the hat. "There," said Buffle, looking into the hat, "I reckon that'll kerry 'em back to their folks." For a fortnight the saloon was as quiet as a well-ordered prayer-meeting, and it was solemnly decided that no fight with pistols should take place nearer than The Bend, which was, at least, a mile from where the new resident's cradle was located.