The bar, which was made of packing boxes covered with oiled cloth, ran the whole length of the room on the right-hand side from the door. At the left-hand side were a couple of small green baize-covered tables. By these were seated several Mexicans, all more or less drunk. They were singing noisily. Along the wall behind the bar ran a shelf which supported a large array of bottles. Behind these, in imitation of the cheap gaudiness of a city saloon, was a long, cracked mirror. Two Colt revolvers lying grimly on the shelf gave a delicate hint to guests to behave themselves, and to pay their bills. The Mexicans looked in a stupid, vacant way at Loring, then went on with their singing. The barkeeper was leaning against the wall, biting the end from a cigar, and at the same time whistling. This accomplishment was made possible by the fact that two front teeth were missing. It was rumored that in addition to smoking and whistling, he could curse and expectorate, all at the same time. The possessor of these remarkable accomplishments greeted Stephen in a friendly fashion. They had often before met in the camp, when Hankins came down from the saloon for supplies. “Well, now, Mr. Loring, I’m glad to see you. Mean weather out, ain’t it? First time you’ve been up to our diggings, I guess,” he said, while he gripped Stephen’s hand with a crushing grasp. “Yes, this is the first time I have had a chance to drop in,” rejoined Loring. Some one rode up to the door, and with heavy tread, and jangling of spurs, came stamping into the saloon. “How are you stacking up, Jackie?” asked Hankins of the newcomer. “Say, Mr. Loring, I want you to know my partner; Mr. Jackson, shake hands with Mr. Loring.” The introduction accomplished, he stepped back behind the bar. “What are you goin’ to have to drink, gents? This one is on the house.” “Thanks! Whisky for me, please,” answered Loring. “Whisky? All right. I have some pretty good stuff here. No more kick to it than from a little lamb. Have some too, Jackie? I thought so.” Hankins poured the golden fluid into three gray-looking glasses. “Regards, gents!” he said in a businesslike tone of voice, raising his glass as he spoke. “Regards,” echoed Loring, emptying his glass at a gulp. The whisky sent a warm glow through his frame. “That was good,” he said, in a judicial tone of voice. “Now won’t you gentlemen take something with me?” “Well, I don’t care if I do,” answered Hankins. The same formula, “Regards,” was repeated. Loring leaned in comfort against the bar. The attitude, unfortunately, was not strange to him. Time and time again, on Stephen’s invitation, the glasses were refilled, while every now and then Hankins insisted, “One on the house.” After the first two drinks, however, the latter and his partner drank only beer, while Loring continued to drink straight whisky. The other men had one by one departed, so that Loring and his companions were left alone.