"A-hem. That's when you said something," smiled Legs, "eh, Mis'?" She joined in the humor. "Well, boys," said Legs, when they were comfortably seated, "this looks good to me. Supposing we just hang up here, and send for our stuff?" It was agreeable to the other two, and they were, therefore, duly installed, three in a room. Legs, being the longest, was given a bed to himself, while Hatfield and Wyeth agreed to share another together. It was fortunate for both that it was arranged thus, since Legs proved to be a dreadful night man, and, from his apparently restless way of tossing, required a halter. "Any saloons around here, Mis'?" he inquired shortly, when she reappeared on the porch a few minutes later. "Sho is!" she exclaimed. "Yeh, most sho. Go right down this street, turn the corner, and across the street near the other corner, is what you want," she laughed, taking them all for granted. Wyeth and Hatfield followed Legs to the inevitable fountain he now sought energetically. "Got t' have a little liquah before I c'n feel like myself," he grinned, as they sauntered along. "Hello!" called some one from the rear. Turning, they observed a medium sized Negro walking rapidly in their direction, and beckoning to them. They halted, and presently he stood before them, introducing himself. "Pardon me, gentlemen," he began very properly; "but the Mis' back there," pointing in the direction of the house they had just left, "was telling me that you have just taken a room with her, and, since I am the man of the house, I wish to offer my name and make you welcome." He was very cordial. His name was Moore, John Moore, he said, and to describe him, our pen fails to a degree. He had, however, an odd looking face. His cheek bones were high, slightly Indian-like, while his face was broad. His nose was not flat, nor was it high or medium, it was--just a nose, that's all. He held his head forward aggressively, his eyes were twinkling, and possessed a cordiality that, to a careful observer, was distrustful. And still, his appearance in general, was that of a Negro who might be expected to bluff, but not to fight; to steal when the opportunity was ripe, with enough cunningness to keep from being caught. Otherwise, he was apparently harmless. They acknowledged his welcome, and, joining them, they all went toward the place of happiness by proxy. "I'm buyin' this," said Moore, as they lined the bar, four abreast. "Let me do the buying this time," insisted Legs, who proved himself a sport, and a good mixer. "I've paid him already," said Moore, as if in dismissal, shoving at the same time, a half dollar across the bar. "Whiskey," nodded Legs familiarly, to the bartender. "Little liquah, too," from Moore. "Beer." "Beer." "Drink whiskey!" insisted Legs and Moore, of the other two. "Something that has the kick." "These are my sons," said Legs, teasingly.