When the girl returned with the proprietor of the hotel Harold was far past rational speech. He was pounding furiously on the door, shouting, "Let me out!" When they tried to open the door they found it locked. The proprietor, a burly German, set his weight against it and tore the lock off. Harold was dangerously quiet as he said: "You'd better let me out o' here. Them greasers are stampeding the cattle. It's a little trick of theirs." "Dot's all right; you go back to bed; I'll look out for dot greaser pisness," said the landlord, who thought him drunk. "You let me out or I'll break you in two," the determined man replied, and a tremendous struggle took place. Ultimately Harold was vanquished, and Schmidt, piling his huge bulk on the worn-out body of the young man, held him until his notion changed. "Did you ever have a tree burn up in your head?" he asked. "Pring a policeman," whispered Schmidt to the girl, "and a doctor. De man is grazy mit fevers; he aindt trunk." When the officer came in Harold looked at him with sternly steady eyes. "See here, cap, don't you try any funny business with me. I won't stand it; I'll shoot with you for dollars or doughnuts." "What's the matter--jim-jams?" asked the officer indifferently. "No," replied Schmidt, "I tondt pelief it--he's got some fever onto him." The policeman felt his pulse. "He's certainly hot enough. Who is he?" "Hank Jones." "That's a lie--I'm 'Black Mose,'" said Harold. The policeman smiled. "'Black Mose' was killed in San Juan last summer." Harold received this news gravely. "Sorry for him, but I'm the man. You'll find my name on my revolver, the big one--not the little one. I'm all the 'Black Mose' there is. If you'll give me a chance I'll rope a steer with you for blood or whisky; I'm thirsty." "Well now," said the policeman, "you be quiet till the doctor comes, and I'll go through your valise." After a hasty examination he said: "Damned little here, and no revolvers of any kind. Does he eat here?" "No, he only hires this room." "Mebbe he don't eat anywhere; he looks to me like a hungry man." "Dot's what I think," said the maid. "I'll go pring him some soup." The prisoner calmly said: "Too late now; my stomach is all dried up." "Haven't you any folks?" the policeman asked. Harold seemed to pause for thought. "I believe I have, but I can't think. Mary could tell you." "Who's Mary?" "What's that to you. Bring me some water--I'm burning dry." "Now keep quiet," said the policeman; "you're sick as a horse." When the doctor came the policeman turned Harold over to him. "This is a case for St. Luke's Hospital, I guess," he said as he went out. The doctor briskly administered a narcotic as being the easiest and simplest way to handle a patient who seemed friendless and penniless. "The man is simply delirious with fever. He looks like a man emaciated from lack of food. What do you know about him?" The landlord confessed he knew but little.