"I am going to ask you to reverse things a little, and drink a standing toast to the man who saved the stage, to the man who saved Miss Ritchie and my sisters and who made this dinner possible. This would be far from a happy day but for him. I want you to drink to the long life and happiness of The Orphan. All up!" The clink of glasses was lost in the spontaneous cheer which burst from the lips of the former outlaw's new friends, and he sat confused and embarrassed with a sudden timidity, his face crimson. "Speech!" cried Jim, the others joining in the cry. "Speech! Speech!" Finally, after some urging, The Orphan slowly arose to his feet, a foolish smile playing about his lips. "It wasn't anything," he said deprecatingly. "You all would have done it, every one of you. But I'm glad it was me. I'm glad I was on hand, although it wasn't anything to make all this fuss about," and he dropped suddenly into his seat, feeling hot and uncomfortable. "Well, we have different ideas about its being nothing," replied the sheriff. "Now, boys, a toast to Bill Halloway," he requested. "Bill couldn't get here to-day, but we mustn't forget him. His splendid grit and driving made it possible for our friend to play his hand so well." "Hurrah for Bill!" cried Silent, leaping to his feet with the others. When seated again he looked quickly at his glass and turned to Bud. "Real sweet cider!" he exulted. "Good Lord, but how time gallops past! I'd almost forgotten what it was like! It's been over twenty years since I tasted any! Ain't it fine?" "I was wondering what it was," remarked Humble, a trace of awe in his voice as he refilled his glass. "It's shore enough sweet cider, and blamed good, too!" Charley was romping with the mail carrier and he had a sudden inspiration: "Speech from Joe! Speech for the pieces of pie and cake he's due to get!" "Now, look here, boy," Joe gravely replied. "I'm the mail carrier. I don't have to go on jury duty, lead religion round-ups, go to war or make speeches. As the books say, I'm exempt. All I have to do is punch cows, rustle the mail and eat pie and cake once a week," he said, glancing at Bud, who glared and groaned. "Good boy, Joe!" cried Humble, waving his glass excitedly. "You're shore all right, you are, and I'm your deputy, ain't I?" "No, not my deputy, but my delirium," corrected Joe. "Glory be!" cried Silent as his plate was passed to him. "Chicken, real chicken! Mashed potatoes, mashed turnips and dressing and gravy! And here comes stewed corn, boiled onions and jelly and mother's bread. And stewed tomatoes? Well, well! I guess we ain't going to be well fed, and real happy, eh, fellows? My stomach won't know what's the matter--it'll think it died and went to heaven by mistake. Holy smoke! It hurts my eyes. What, cranberry jam? Well, I'm just going to close my eyes for a minute if you don't mind; I want to recuperate from the shock. This is where I live again!"