Presently he becomes aware of the fact that Wycherley is shaking hands with a gentleman and indulging in a chat. Their voices are deadened by the many sounds of the Midway, which never quiets down until midnight, but when he glances toward them a few minutes later, Aleck can see from the dramatic gestures of his friend that the vagabond Thespian has received information on some score that excites him, but the rapid thoughts crowding upon his brain prohibit his taking any interest in what they may be gossiping over. He takes a second look at the man, however, and upon seeing his style, somehow inclines toward the belief that whoever he may be he comes out of the rowdy West. His laugh is like the roar of a bull, and his voice reminds one of a storm muttering in the Rockies, it is so deep and bass. Craig begins to gather the several threads of his opinions together, just as the driver of a four-in-hand might secure the various reins, in order to make a clean run. He is making fair headway when an interruption occurs, and frowning, Aleck looks up to see the jocund actor at his side, having the unknown in tow. “My friend, Bob Rocket--Aleck Craig. Two good fellows who should know each other,” says Wycherley, and the Canadian feeling his hand caught as in a vise, realizes that his comrade has betrayed him, and is in duty bound to return the grip. “Glad to meet you, Mr. Craig. Had a chum by your name once, poor fellow.” “Ah! something happened to him, then?” Aleck is interested enough to remark. “Hoss thieves--Mexicans--shot the poor boy. I made ’em sweat, you understand. There was no rest for me till that score was wiped out,” returns the ruddy faced man, gritting his strong teeth, and with a strange light flashing in his eyes. “I judge you are from the West, Mr. Rocket.” “Yes. Colorado is my roost at present. I was born on the border and brought up among the wildest scenes a man ever looked on. In Mexico I’ve been with the revolutionists. I’ve mined in Idaho and Montana, and been peace officer in a dozen Territories and States. At present I’m a sheriff in Colorado.” “Indeed! You know my friend here. Where did you ever run across this rolling stone?” The sheriff’s face suddenly grows soft, as he turns his head upon Wycherley, and there is unassumed tenderness in his voice as he says: “I’ll tell you, sir. It was several years back, that terrible winter we had in Colorado. I had hard luck and came near passing in my checks on account of a gunshot wound received while arresting a desperado--but I got him, and he stretched hemp, I’m telling you.