Now the rôle of confidential adviser to the boys was not a new one to the barkeeper, nor was anyone in the camp more familiar than he with their good qualities as well as their failings. Every morning before going to work in the placers it was their custom to stop in at The Polka for their first drink--which was, generally, “on the house.” Invariably, Nick received them in his shirt-sleeves,--for that matter he was the proud possessor of the sole “biled shirt” in the camp,--and what with his red flannel undershirt that extended far below the line of his cuffs, his brilliantly-coloured waistcoat and tie, and his hair combed down very low in a cowlick over his forehead, he was indeed an odd little figure of a man as he listened patiently to the boys’ grievances and doled out sympathy to them. On the other hand, absolutely devoted to the fair proprietress of the saloon,--though solely in the character of a good comrade,--he never ceased trying to advance her interests; and since one and all of her customers believed themselves to be in love with her, one of his most successful methods was to flatter each one in turn into thinking that he had made a tremendous impression upon her. It was not a difficult thing to do inasmuch as long custom and repetition had made him an adept at highly-coloured lying. “Well, you got the first chance,” asseverated Nick, dropping his voice to a whisper. Sonora grinned from ear to ear; he expanded his broad chest and held his head proudly; and waving his hand in lordly fashion he sung out: “Cigars for all hands and drinks, too, Nick!” The genial prevaricator could scarcely restrain himself from laughing outright as he watched the other return to his place at the faro table; and when, in due course, he served the concoctions and passed around the high-priced cigars, there was a smile on his face which said as plainly as if spoken that Sonora was not the only person present that had reason to be pleased with himself. Then occurred one of those terpsichorean performances which never failed to shock old Sonora’s sense of the fitness of things. For the next moment two Ridge boys, dancing together, waltzed through the opening between the two rooms and, letting out ear-piercing whoops with every rotation, whirled round and round the room until they brought up against the bar where they, breathlessly, called for drinks. An angry lull fell upon the room; the card game stopped. However, before anyone seated there could give vent to his resentment at this boisterous intrusion of the men from the rival camp, the smooth, oily and inviting voice of the unprincipled Sidney Duck, scenting easy prey because of their inebriated condition, called out in its cockney accent: “’Ello, boys--’ow’s things at The Ridge?”