At this Samson Cereal takes courage and raises his head again. He is just in time to see the sheriff draw something out from his inner pocket, which he holds up. “Do you see that? Would you call it a good photograph of one John Phœnix?” he asks. “Not much. That is my counterfeit resemblance. I kept it in a drawer of my desk, and I remember Jack’s was there too. See here, Mr. Rocket, do you mean to tell me someone in the office sent you that picture and said it was Phœnix, the defaulter?” “That’s exactly what was done, sir,” replies the sheriff, not quite so confident as he was, though keeping a sharp lookout for tricks. He has a constitutional uneasiness about rogues who are playing big games. “It was a miserable blunder, and inexcusable. They could not have discovered it as yet, or a message would have been sent explaining matters. Now, my dear colonel, let’s be reasonable in this matter. To create a disturbance at this time in my father’s house would be inexcusable--damnable, sir. I am anxious to avoid a scene. When the guests are gone I will room with you where you will, and when morning comes it will be my turn to prove my identity, after which an apology must be in order from you, sir. I am not at all disturbed by your accusation. In my other coat I have letters, various things to show you who I am. Look at this ring with the monogram J. A. C. Then here is my watch marked the same way.” “The devil! this seems an odd thing, I declare, but I’m a martinet when it comes to duty, and until you prove your innocence, nothing remains for me but to believe you guilty. You understand it--this photograph is my authority; if it proves false, I’ll willingly apologize. Until then you must be--my prisoner.” “Very good! We shall laugh at this joke in less than ten hours. Father, send your message, and depend on me that it’s all right. Were it twice the sum I could raise it in an hour after the banks open. Someone down in Denver will have to pay the piper for this outrageous blunder. That a picture of Phœnix! Why, hang it, we’re as much opposites as you and I, Colonel Rocket, and in disposition too. I am quiet, sedate, while I doubt if in all Denver, or the West, you could find a jollier fellow than Happy Jack.” Aleck Craig gives a cry. “What was that name?” he demands hastily. “We usually called Phœnix Happy Jack, on account of his rollicking ways,” returns John. “Wonderful!” murmurs the Canadian. As for the colonel, his red face glows with a sudden zeal. His manner reminds one of the setter quivering with excitement, upon scenting the game close at hand. “Craig, tell me, wasn’t that the name of the gay young dog who was with you last night? When you related that adventure a while ago, I’m dead certain you called him Happy Jack, and that he said he knew Phœnix?” “Just so, colonel, and unless he’s flown you’ll find him at the Sherman House.” “Good Heavens! was ever a man so beset?” “What now, Rocket?” asks John, smiling.