The approach across the Plaza of a group of men caused him to lay aside his paper, and with it his spectacles. The doffing of the latter strangely changed his whole expression. The philosophical middle-aged quietude fell from him. He became younger, keener, more alert. It was as though he had removed a disguise. The group approaching were all young men, and all dressed in the height of fashion. At that rather picturesque time this implied the flat-brimmed beaver hat; the long swallowtail, or skirted coat; the tight "pantaloons"; varicoloured, splendid, low-cut waistcoats of satin, of velvet, or of brocade; high wing collars; varnished boots; many sparkling, studs and cravat pins; rather longish hair; and whiskers cut close to the cheek or curling luxuriantly under the chin. They were prosperous, well-fed, arrogant-looking youths, carrying their crests high, the light of questing recklessness in their eyes, ready to laugh, drink, or fight with anybody. At sight of Sherwood they waved friendly hands, and canes, and veered in his direction. "Yo're just the man we are looking for!" cried a tall, dark, graceful young fellow, "We are all 'specially needful of wisdom. The drinks are on some one, and we cain't decide who." John Sherwood, his keen eyes twinkling, set his chair down on four legs. "State your case, Cal," he said. Cal waved a graceful hand at a stout, burly, red-faced man whose thick blunt fingers, square blue jowl, and tilted cigar gave the flavour of the professional politician. "John Webb, here-excuse _me_, Sheriff John Webb-presumin' on the fact that he has been to the mines, and that he came here in '49, arrogates to himself the exclusive lyin' privileges, of this assemblage." "Pretty large order," commented Sherwood. "_Pre_cisely," agreed Cal, "and that's why the drinks are on him!" But Sheriff Webb, who had been chuckling cavernously inside his bulky frame, spoke up in a harsh and husky voice: "I told them an innocent experience of mine, and they try to hold me up for drinks. I don't object to giving them a reasonable amount of drinks--what _I_ call reasonable," he added hastily, "but I object to being held up." "He says he used to cook," put in a small, alert, nervous, rather flashily dressed individual named Rowlee, editor of the _Bugle_. "I did!" stoutly asseverated Webb. "And that he baked a loaf of bread so hard nobody could eat it." "Sounds perfectly reasonable," said Sherwood. "And that nobody could _break_ it," Rowlee went on. "I have no difficulty in believing that," said Sherwood judicially. "Your case is mighty weak yet, Cal." "But he claims it was so hard that they used it for a grindstone." "I did not!" disclaimed Webb indignantly. An accusing groan met this statement. "I tell you I didn't say anything of the kind," roared Webb, his bull voice overtopping them all. "Well, what did you say, then?" challenged Calhoun Bennett.