“Wipes this camp off the earth!” returned a voice that was provocative in the extreme--a reply that instantly brought every man at the faro table to his feet. For a time, at least, it seemed as if the boys from The Ridge would get the trouble they were looking for. A murmur of angry amazement arose, while Sonora, his watery blue eyes glinting, followed up his explosive, “What!” with a suggestive movement towards his hip. But quick as he was Nick was still quicker and had The Ridge boy, as well as Sonora, covered before their hands had even reached their guns. “You...!” the little barkeeper’s sentence was bristled out and contained along with the expletives some comparatively mild words which gave the would-be combatants to understand that any such foolishness would not be tolerated in The Polka unless he himself “’lowed it to be ne’ssary.” Not unnaturally The Ridge boys failed to see anything offensive in language that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of any further attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they wisely yielded to superior quickness at the draw. With a whoop of resignation they rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of the caller was exhorting the gents--whose partners were mostly big, husky, hairy-faced men clumsily enacting parts generally assigned to members of the gentler sex--to swing: “With the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the left-hand gent, first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first partner swing with the left-hand gent, and the partner in the centre, and gents all around!” Back at the faro table now,--the incident having passed quickly into oblivion,--Sonora called to the dealer for “a slug’s worth of chips”--a request that was promptly acceded to. But they had played only a few minutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was heard singing: “_Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, Wait for the waggon, And we’ll all take a ride. Wait for the waggon--_” “Here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of The Ridge!” broke in Nick, whose province it was to act as master of ceremonies; and coming forward as the singer emerged from the dance-hall he introduced him to the assembled company in the most approved music-hall manner: “Allow me to present to you, Jake Wallace the Camp favour-ite!” he said with an exaggeratedly low bow. “How-dy, Jake! Hello, Jake, old man! How be you, Jake!” were some of the greetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed in a long linen duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the words of welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of the room.