“Aw, he spat out a tooth and soaked his smeller in cold water,” grinned Keller. “It sure was right good to look upon.” “It must have been,” said Leach dryly. “C’mon up to the Short Horn, and I’ll buy a drink,” offered Keller. “No thanks,” Leach shook his head. “I’m going home.” “How about you, Grant?” queried Keller. Grant grinned and started up the street. “Just to show that I’m a hail-feller-well-met, c’mon.” Leach looked after them, a half-sneer on his face, and went slowly down to McGill’s saloon, where he went inside. * * * * * _Tung-g-g, hung-g-g-g, bong-g-g, bong-g-g-g, zung-g-g-g._ Mrs. Wesson lifted her head from the pillow and strained her ears, trying to figure out what was making the peculiar noise. She had been listening to it for quite a while. It was a weird noise, half-metallic, half-human. She reached over to a chair, where an alarm clock ticked loudly, and, in the dim light, took note of the time. “Four o’clock,” she said aloud. “Eh?” Cale Wesson, her husband, lifted himself on one elbow and squinted at her. “Whazzamatter?” “That danged noise,” she replied. “Didn’t yuh hear it?” Cale yawned audibly and turned his pillow over. He was not interested. _Hung-g-g, bong-g-g, zung-g-g-g, zung-g-g, bong-g-g-g._ “What the —— is that?” demanded Cale, sitting up in bed. “That’s what I’ve been talkin’ about,” said Mrs. Wesson. “I’ve been hearin’ it for quite a while. Sounds like a tight wire in a wind.” “Um-m-m.” Cale slid out of bed and went to a window. The sounds seemed to come from almost directly below them. “It’s sure got me,” declared Cale. “I’m danged——” “I care not for the star-r-r-rs that shi-i-ine.” The voice was singing softly, unmusically; dwelling with fervor and longing upon the higher registers. “I only ho-o-ope that you’ll be-e-e mi-i-i-ine.” Cale Wesson slid the window up softly and looked down. Harp Harris was sitting against a corner of the porch, his face lifted in the moonlight, eyes closed, as he poured out his soul in his own kind of melody— “I only know I lo-o-o-ove you-u-u-u; Love me-e-e-e-e and the wor-r-r-rld is mi-i-i-i-ine.” The last wailing note died away. Cale Wesson turned and looked at his wife. Mrs. Wesson was a big, raw-boned woman, with a sense of humor, and just now the curl-papers on her head were jerking from excess mirth. She shoved Cale aside and leaned out of the window. “Harp!” she called softly. “Eh?” Harp’s eyes opened and he gasped up at the window above him. “You ought to go home and git some sleep,” said Mrs. Wesson. “Huh?” Harp’s vocal cords creaked slightly. “We like yore music,” said Mrs. Wesson seriously, “but Cale’s got to have sleep, if he’s going to run a store. Pers’nally, I kinda like it. Yuh better try it ag’in some night when Cale ain’t at home.” “Uh,” replied Harp. He stepped off the porch, as if to sneak away, but summoned up a little nerve.