“Gone up the cañon on a little _pasear_. They’re coming back for me in a minit. I’m waitin’ round for ’em. What are you starin’ at, Old Man?” he added with a forced laugh; “do you think I’m drunk?” The old man might have been pardoned the supposition, for Dick’s eyes were humid and his face flushed. He loitered and lounged back to the chimney, yawned, shook himself, buttoned up his coat and laughed. “Liquor ain’t so plenty as that, Old Man. Now don’t you git up,” he continued, as the Old Man made a movement to release his sleeve from Johnny’s hand. “Don’ you mind manners. Sit jist whar you be; I’m goin’ in a jiffy. Thar, that’s them now.” There was a low tap at the door. Dick Bullen opened it quickly, nodded “good night” to his host, and disappeared. The Old Man would have followed him but for the hand that still unconsciously grasped his sleeve. He could have easily disengaged it; it was small, weak, and emaciated. But perhaps because it was small, weak, and emaciated, he changed his mind, and drawing his chair closer to the bed, rested his head upon it. In this defenceless attitude the potency of his earlier potations surprised him. The room flickered and faded before his eyes, reappeared, faded again, went out, and left him—asleep. Meantime, Dick Bullen, closing the door, confronted his companions. “Are you ready?” said Staples. “Ready!” said Dick; “what’s the time?” “Past twelve,” was the reply; “can you make it?—it’s nigh on fifty miles, the round trip hither and yon.” “I reckon,” returned Dick, shortly. “Whar’s the mare?” “Bill and Jack’s holdin’ her at the crossin’.” “Let ’em hold on a minit longer,” said Dick. He turned and re-entered the house softly. By the light of the guttering candle and dying fire he saw that the door of the little room was open. He stepped toward it on tiptoe and looked in. The Old Man had fallen back in his chair, snoring, his helpless feet thrust out in a line with his collapsed shoulders, and his hat pulled over his eyes. Beside him, on a narrow wooden bedstead, lay Johnny, muffled tightly in a blanket that hid all save a strip of forehead and a few curls damp with perspiration. Dick Bullen made a step forward, hesitated, and glanced over his shoulder into the deserted room. Everything was quiet. With a sudden resolution he parted his huge moustaches with both hands, and stooped over the sleeping boy. But even as he did so a mischievous blast, lying in wait, swooped down the chimney, rekindling the hearth, and lit up the room with a shameless glow, from which Dick fled in bashful terror. His companions were already waiting for him at the crossing. Two of them were struggling in the darkness with some strange misshapen bulk, which, as Dick came nearer, took the semblance of a great yellow horse. It was the mare. She was not a pretty picture.