"Aw, come on!" urged the other, but his heart was not in it, and he turned gaily away up the main street. Left to himself, the big man went on to his lunch-counter, where he ordered oysters, "a dozen in the milk." Then he ordered a beefsteak, to make up for several he had missed, and asked the cook to fry it rare. He was just negotiating for a can of pears that had caught his eye when an old man came in and took the stool beside him, picking up the menu with a trembling hand. "Give me a cup of coffee," he said to the waiter, "and"--he gazed at the bill of fare carefully--"and a roast-beef sandwich. No, just the coffee!" he corrected, and at that Bud gave him a look. He was a small man, shabbily dressed and with scraggly whiskers, and his nose was very red. "Here," called Bud, coming to an instant conclusion, "give 'im his sandwich; I'll pay for it!" "All right," answered the waiter, who was no other than Sunny Jim, the proprietor, and, whisking up a sandwich from the sideboard, he set it before the old man, who glanced at him in silence. For a fraction of a second he regarded the sandwich apathetically; then, with the aid of his coffee, he made way with it and slipped down off his stool. "Say," observed the proprietor, as Bud was paying his bill, "do you know who that oldtimer was?" "What oldtimer?" inquired Bud, who had forgotten his brusk benefaction. "Why, that old feller that you treated to the sandwich." "Oh--him! Some old drunk around town?" hazarded Bud. "Well, he's that, too," conceded Sunny Jim, with a smile. "But lemme tell you, pardner, if you had half the rocks that old boy's got you wouldn't need to punch any more cows. That's Henry Kruger, the man that just sold the Cross-Cut Mine for fifty thousand cash, and he's got more besides." "Huh!" grunted Bud, "he sure don't look it! Say, why didn't you put me wise? Now I've got to hunt him up and apologize." "Oh, that's all right," assured the proprietor; "he won't take any offense. That's just like Old Henry--he's kinder queer that way." "Well, I'll go and see him, anyway," said Bud. "He might think I was butting in." And then, going about his duty with philosophical calm, he ambled off, stiff-legged, down the street. II It was not difficult to find Henry Kruger in Gadsden. The barkeepers, those efficient purveyors of information and drinks, knew him as they knew their thumbs, and a casual round of the saloons soon located him in the back room of the Waldorf. "Say," began Bud, walking bluffly up to him, "the proprietor of that restaurant back there tells me I made a mistake when I insisted on paying for your meal. I just wanted to let you know--"