The men exchanged incredulous glances; from all sides came the explosive cries: “What’s that? You know him?” “Yes,” she affirmed dramatically; and turning now to Rance with a swift change of manner, she confessed: “I didn’t tell you--but I know ’im.” The Sheriff started as if struck. “The Sacramento shrimp by all that is holy!” he muttered between his teeth as the truth slowly dawned upon him. “Yes, boys, this is Mr. Johnson o’ Sacramento,” announced the Girl with a simple and unconscious dignity that did not fail to impress all present. “I vouch to Cloudy for Mr. Johnson!” Consternation! And then the situation vaguely dawning upon them there ensued an outburst of cheering compared to which the previous howl of execration was silence. Johnson smiled pleasantly at the Girl in acknowledgment of her confirmation of him, then shot a half-curious, half-amused look at the crowd surrounding him and regarding him with a new interest. Apparently what he saw was to his liking, for his manner was most friendly when bowing politely, he said: “How are you, boys?” At once the miners returned his salutation in true western fashion: every man in the place, save Rance, taking off his hat and sweeping it before him in an arc as they cried out in chorus: “Hello, Johnson!” “Boys, Rance ain’t a-runnin’ The Polka yet!” observed Sonora with a mocking smile on his lips, and gloating over the opportunity to give the Sheriff a dig. The men shouted their approval of this jibe. Indeed, they might have gone just a little too far with their badgering of the Sheriff, considering the mood that he was in; so, perhaps, it was fortunate that Nick should break in upon them at this time with: “Gents, the boys from The Ridge invites you to dance with them.” No great amount of enthusiasm was evinced at this. Nevertheless, it was a distinct declaration of peace; and, taking advantage of it, Johnson advanced toward the Girl, bowed low, and asked with elaborate formality: “May I have the honour of a waltz?” Flabbergasted and awed to silence by what they termed Johnson’s “style,” Happy and Handsome stood staring helplessly at one another; at length Happy broke out with: “Say, Handsome, ain’t he got a purty action? An’ ornamental sort o’ cuss, ain’t he? But say, kind o’ presumin’ like, ain’t it, for a fellow breathin’ the obscurity o’ The Crossin’ to learn gents like us how to ketch the ladies pronto?” “Which same,” allowed Handsome, “shorely’s a most painful, not to say humiliatin’ state o’ things.” And then to the Girl he whispered: “It’s up to you--make a holy show of ’im.” The Girl laughed. “Me waltz? Me?” she cried, answering Johnson at last. “Oh, I can’t waltz but I can polky.” Once more Johnson bent his tall figure to the ground, and said: “Then may I have the pleasure of the next polka?” By this time Sonora had recovered from his astonishment. After giving vent to a grunt expressive of his contempt, he blurted out: “That fellow’s too flip!”