Half-past Full, on the other side of the sleigh, stood visibly fascinated by the wares he was given a skilful glimpse of down among the blankets. He peered and he pondered while Uncle Pasco glibly spoke to him. “Scatter your truck out plain!” the buccaroo exclaimed, suddenly. “I'm not buying in the dark. Come over to the bunk-house and scatter.” “Brass will look just the same anywhere,” said Drake. “Brass!” screamed Uncle. “Brass your eye!” But the buccaroos, plainly glad for distraction, took the woolly old scolding man with them. Drake shouted that if getting cheated cheered them, by all means to invest heavily, and he returned alone to his fire, where Bolles soon joined him. They waited, accordingly, and by-and-by the sleigh-bells jingled again. As they had come out of the silence, so did they go into it, their little silvery tinkle dancing away in the distance, faint and fainter, then, like a breath, gone. Uncle Pasco's trinkets had audibly raised the men's spirits. They remained in the bunkhouse, their laughter reaching Drake and Bolles more and more. Sometimes they would scuffle and laugh loudly. “Do you imagine it's more leap-frog?” inquired the school-master. “Gambling,” said Drake. “They'll keep at it now till one of them wins everything the rest have bought.” “Have they been lively ever since morning?” “Had a reaction about noon,” said Drake. “Regular home-sick spell. I felt sorry for 'em.” “They seem full of reaction,” said Bolles. “Listen to that!” It was now near four o'clock, and Sam came in, announcing dinner. “All ready,” said the smiling Chinaman. “Pass the good word to the bunk-house,” said Drake, “if they can hear you.” Sam went across, and the shouting stopped. Then arose a thick volley of screams and cheers. “That don't sound right,” said Drake, leaping to his feet. In the next instant the Chinaman, terrified, returned through the open door. Behind him lurched Half-past Full, and stumbled into the room. His boot caught, and he pitched, but saved himself and stood swaying, heavily looking at Drake. The hair curled dense over his bull head, his mustache was spread with his grin, the light of cloddish humor and destruction burned in his big eye. The clay had buried the spirit like a caving pit. “Twas false jewelry all right!” he roared, at the top of his voice. “A good old jimmyjohn full, boss. Say, boss, goin' to run our jimmyjohn off the ranch? Try it on, kid. Come over and try it on!” The bull beat on the table. Dean Drake had sat quickly down in his chair, his gray eye upon the hulking buccaroo. Small and dauntless he sat, a sparrow-hawk caught in a trap, and game to the end--whatever end. “It's a trifle tardy to outline any policy about your demijohn,” said he, seriously. “You folks had better come in and eat before you're beyond appreciating.” “Ho, we'll eat your grub, boss. Sam's cooking goes.” The buccaroo lurched out and away to the bunk-house, where new bellowing was set up.