“Let me see it, Claude--a little old-fashioned, but a good weapon. You treasure it--why?” “It was given to me once upon a time by a man I valued as a friend. I was hardly more than a boy at the time. That weapon has sounded the deathknell of many a man.” “Indeed! not in your hands, I hope?” At this Claude laughs. “No, indeed. I’ve never fired it in all these years. You have heard of an eccentric genius known by the name of Wild Bill--it belonged to him. I was enabled to do him a favor, and he insisted on giving me this. A month later he passed in his checks, poor fellow.” “You mean he was killed?” “Yes, and the man who shot Hickok was too much of a coward to face him, but entered the room where he played cards, and shot Wild Bill in the back. He paid the piper, though.” “Judge Lynch held court?” “Well, he got away at first, but the boys just up and howled. There was a trial, and in the end the matter was settled.” “By the way, is it loaded?” “I reckon not, but that don’t count. I depend on the general appearance of things to intimidate. If that fails me, here is another Texan trick.” How he does it the Canadian never knows, but this wonderful genius, once actor, tramp, cowboy, and now stockbroker, puts his hand up to the back of his neck and draws out a most formidable weapon--half knife, half sword--a curiosity that would charm a collector, rusty in spots, even nicked and shabby, yet showing signs of former splendor as a Texan bowie. “You see I had my choice of this and a Mexican _machete_ I own among my curios, and I took this because it lies so charmingly along one’s back under the coat--its shape was adapted to that very purpose by Colonel Bowie, who invented it, and I assure you, Aleck, I have positive proof that this is the identical weapon he fashioned himself and used to such advantage.” Craig throws up his hands. “I no longer doubt the outcome. If those poor Turks ever set their eyes on that saber, their wretched knees will knock together like Spanish castanets and the Street of Cairo which once was haunted with their presence will know them never again.” “Craig, you are heartless--cruel. Sir, in the land of the Texan this is reckoned only as a play toy.” “For Heaven’s sake put it away. The sight of it is enough to bring up thoughts of _hari kari_. If one hated himself he could not wish for anything more desperate with which to end his existence than that same old rusty blade,” says Aleck. “Rusty old blade, forsooth! You have no reverence for relics, Craig. In the hands of one entirely great, the bowie is mightier than the sword.” “Well, come along, my boy. _Tempus fugit_, and I see Samson Cereal with his friends sauntering down the avenue. When he separates from them, as will soon be the case, the Turkish spider will throw his wonderful web across the street, and the American fly be asked to 'walk into my little parlor!’”