“What _is_ the matter? What is wrong?” “Nodings wrong. He vas all right.” Here the shoemaker jumped to his feet, shouting in a wavering voice: “Ee--you! I’m de ring-tailed broncho and it’s my time to buck. Ee--you!” “Run, Loney,” said the distracted Dora, “run and get the doctor. Papa has gone crazy.” “Neffer mind, Loney. I’m all right now. Dere vos a feller here py de name of ‘Cactus,’ and he haf stickers on, and he vanted me to peg dem in.” “Worse and worse! Run, Loney, for the doctor. Run quick!” “No, no, Dora. It is all right now. I vos nervous, dot’s all. Vere is de Bennie?” “Waiting at Lyons’ for you. He insists that you shall come there and have supper with him.” “All right, Dora, I vill go. I need a little air, und I vill drink von or a couple of glasses of beer. Keep de shop. Good-bye. I vill soon come back. Good-bye, childrens.” Saying this, the nerve-shaken shoemaker put on his hat, and left his apron, and went up the steps to the street. Dora was so happy that it seemed as though she could not contain her joy. To her simple heart, marriage and motherhood were the sum and substance of a woman’s earthly joy. No longings after a “career” troubled her heart. She had her dear father, her little Loney, and, above all, her Bennie. Was ever a girl so blessed before? Could human heart ask more? Her cup was full to overflowing. Dora seized Loney and began to dance about the dark, little shop. “Oh, Loney! what a happy world this is, after all! This is only an old cellar, but I am just as happy as if it were a palace of gold.” “I knew the happy days would come to the cellar,” said Loney, with a vague, far-away look in his blue eyes, “because I have prayed and prayed, because you and your father were so good to me.” While these words were still on the lips of the child, the doorway was again darkened and the burly form of “Cactus Bill” appeared. He shouted: “Ee--you! Where is he? I’m loaded for bear. I want a pipeful of his whiskers.” Dora slipped her arm around Loney and drew him into the shadow, just as John Pierson and Dopey Mack came softly down the steps. “Cactus Bill” was so unsteady on his feet and so overcome by the vile liquor he had been drinking that he neither heard nor saw the two men. Scarcely had they reached the level of the floor than Pierson leveled his pistol at “Bill,” who stood with his back to the door, and fired, the ball striking the drunken man in the back. With the instinct of self-defence, “Bill” drew his pistol and tried to aim at his adversary, but fell nerveless to the floor, where he lay inert. Pierson, with his pistol still in his hand, stepped forward, saying: “It was your life or mine! You have searched the Bowery from end to end for me to-night, to kill me--and I drew first; that’s all.” The prostrate giant gave no sign of life, and after a moment Pierson said: “He is dead!” “Yes,” said Dopey, in an ugly whisper, “and dese kids is witness to de deed.”