“Say,” said the boy, confidentially--“honest now. How about you and me? Five hundred dollars if I had your beard. You've got a record and I've got a future. And my bloom's on me rich, without a scratch. How many dollars you gif me for dat bloom?” The sparrow-hawk sailed into a freakish imitation of his master. “You are a liddle rascal!” cried the master, shaking with entertainment. “Und if der peoples vas to hear you sass old Max Vogel in dis style they would say, 'Poor old Max, he lose his gr-rip.' But I don't lose it.” His great hand closed suddenly on the boy's shoulder, his voice cut clean and heavy as an axe, and then no more joking about him. “Haf you understand that?” he said. “Yes, sir.” “How old are you, son?” “Nineteen, sir.” “Oh my, that is offle young for the job I gif you. Some of dose man you go to boss might be your father. Und how much do you weigh?” “About a hundred and thirty.” “Too light, too light. Und I haf keep my eye on you in Boise. You are not so goot a boy as you might be.” “Well, sir, I guess not.” “But you was not so bad a boy as you might be, neider. You don't lie about it. Now it must be farewell to all that foolishness. Haf you understand? You go to set an example where one is needed very bad. If those men see you drink a liddle, they drink a big lot. You forbid them, they laugh at you. You must not allow one drop of whiskey at the whole place. Haf you well understand?” “Yes, sir. Me and whiskey are not necessary to each other's happiness.” “It is not you, it is them. How are you mit your gun?” Vogel took the boy's pistol from its holster and aimed at an empty bottle which was sticking in the thin Deceiver snow. “Can you do this?” he said, carelessly, and fired. The snow struck the bottle, but the unharming bullet was buried half an inch to the left. The boy took his pistol with solemnity. “No,” he said. “Guess I can't do that.” He fired, and the glass splintered into shapelessness. “Told you I couldn't miss as close as you did,” said he. “You are a darling,” said Mr. Vogel. “Gif me dat lofely weapon.” A fortunate store of bottles lay, leaned, or stood about in the white snow of Nampa, and Mr. Vogel began at them. “May I ask if anything is the matter?” inquired a mild voice from the stage. “Stick that lily head in-doors,” shouted Vogel; and the face and eye-glasses withdrew again into the stage. “The school-teacher he will be beautifool virtuous company for you at Malheur Agency,” continued Vogel, shooting again; and presently the large old German destroyed a bottle with a crashing smack. “Ah!” said he, in unison with the smack. “Ah-ha! No von shall say der old Max lose his gr-rip. I shoot it efry time now, but the train she whistle. I hear her.” The boy affected to listen earnestly. “Bah! I tell you I hear de whistle coming.” “Did you say there was a whistle?” ventured the occupant of the stage. The snow shone white on his glasses as he peered out.