and decided stand for cleanliness Mr. Dalhart has shown that he possesses the capacity for better things, even if he did make a slight mistake in regard to Isaac Crittenden's spotted calf. The scrap was a jim-dandy, while it lasted, but the issue was never in doubt, for the Verde terror is a whirlwind when he gets started. There have been house-cleanings galore in the past, but never within the memory of man has the Geronimo jail received such a washing and scrubbing as was administered when Dalhart rose up in his wrath and put down the very strike which he had organized; and while the sheriff cannot but deprecate his tendency to resort to violence there is no gainsaying the fact that in this case his motives were of the best. Stay with it, Pecos, you may be alcalde yet!" Pecos Dalhart was sitting in lonely state, eating the fresh-baked pie which Hung Wo conferred upon him as the Boss, when Bill Todhunter shoved a copy of the Geronimo _Blade_ through the bars. "See you got yore name in the paper," he observed, but Pecos only grunted. Curiosity is an attribute of the child—and besides, he was more interested in his pie. It had always been an ambition of his to have pie three times a day, and the steady round of beef, bread, and coffee incidental to life on the range had made that hope seem a dream dear enough almost to justify matrimony. At least, he had never expected to attain to it any other way; but Hung Wo was a good cook, when he wanted to be. To serve two prison meals a day for fourteen cents and a profit meant pretty close figuring, and the patrons of Hung Wo's downtown restaurant needed to have no compunctions about leaving a part of their bounteous dinner untouched—the guests of the Hotel de Morgan were not supposed to be superstitious about eating "come-backs." It would be a poor Chinaman who could not feed you on ten cents a day, if you didn't care what you ate. But Pecos cared, and he cast a glance that was almost benevolent upon his faithful pie-maker as he tucked the _Blade_ into his shirt. "That's good pie, Charley," he said approvingly. "Some day when you ketchum big hurry I make him boy wash dishes." "Allite," responded Hung Wo, "you likee kek?" "Sure thing! You savvey makum cake?" "Me makum kek, pie, cha'lotte lusse, custa'd, plenty mo'!" declaimed Charley, with pride. "Sure! I know you! You keep big restaurant—down by Turf Saloon, hey? I eat there, one time—heap good!" "You tlink so?" beamed the child-like Oriental. "Allite, next time me bingum kek!" He gathered up the tin pannikins and departed, radiant, while Pecos crouched peacefully on his heels against the corridor bars. "Say, they's a piece about you in that paper," volunteered Todhunter, as he jerked open the cell doors, "that young feller that was here last night wrote it up."