"W'y, sure," he said handing over the wallet; but as the miner turned to go Hill jabbed him in the ribs with a pistol. "Just a moment, my friend," he went on quietly, "I just want to tell you a few things. I've been feeding men like you for fifteen years, right here in this old town, and I've never turned one away yet; but you can tell any bo that you meet on the trail that the road-sign for this burg is changed. I used to be easy, but so help me Gawd, I'll never feed a hobo again. Here my wife has been slaving over a red-hot stove cooking grub for you hoboes for years and the first bum that forgets and leaves his purse has eight hundred dollars--cash! Now you git, dad-burn ye, before I do the world a favor and fill you full of lead!" He motioned him away with the muzzle of his pistol while his wife laid a hand on his arm, and after one look the hobo turned and loped over the top of the hill. "Now Andrew, please," expostulated Mrs. Hill, and, still breathing hard, Old Bunk put up his gun and reached for a chew of tobacco. "Well, all right," he growled, "but you heard what I said--that's the last doggoned hobo we feed." "Well--perhaps," she conceded, but Bunker Hill was roused by the memory of years of ingratitude. "No 'perhaps' about it," he asserted firmly, "I'll run every last one of them away. Do you think I'm going to work my head off for my family, only to be et out of house and home? Do you think I'm going to have you cooking meals for these miners when they're earning their five dollars a day? Let 'em buy a lunch at the store!" "No, but Andrew," protested Mrs. Hill, who was a large, motherly soul and not to be bowed down by work, "I'm sure that some of them are worthy." "Yes, I know you are," he answered, smiling grimly, "that's what you always say. But you hear me, now; I'm through. Don't you feed another man." He turned to his daughter for support, but his bad luck had just begun. Drusilla was shading her eyes from the sun and staring up the trail. "Oh, here comes another one," she cried in a hushed voice and pointed up the creek. He stood at the mouth of the black-shadowed canyon where the trail comes in from Globe--a young man with wind-blown hair, looking doubtfully down at the town; but when he saw them he stepped boldly forth and came plodding down the trail. "Oh, not this one!" pleaded Mrs. Hill when she saw his boyish face; but Bunker Hill thrust out his jaw. "Every one of 'em," he muttered, "the whole works--all of 'em! You women folks go into the house." CHAPTER II BIG BOY