Cheered by this announcement, one of the Mexicans groped under his seat and produced a large nondescript bundle, which, after sundry cuttings of string, and unwrapping of paper, resolved itself into a guitar. Then, after fishing in his pockets, he produced a mouth-organ with two clamps attached. Loring, for want of better occupation, watched him. The man deftly fastened the harmonica to the edge of the guitar. Then slinging the dirty red guitar ribbon over his neck, he played a few warning chords. When the attention of all was fixed upon him, he bent his head over the mouth-organ, and strumming the guitar accompaniment with sweeping strokes, rendered a selection that had once been “A Georgia Camp-Meeting.” The applause being generous, the artist threw himself into the spirit of his performance. “Thees time—with variations,” he exclaimed excitedly. And they were variations! McKay regarded his flock with genial interest. “Ain’t he the musical boy, though?” he observed to Loring. “Playing those two together is quite a trick,” thought Loring; “I must learn it.” Then he realized that he could not even play either singly. Such impulses and awakenings were frequent with him. Constructively he felt himself capable of doing almost anything. The ridiculousness of his thought aroused him from his lethargy, and he began to hum softly the tune that car wheels always play. At eight o’clock the engine gave a last exhausted wheeze, and stopped. “Quentin. All ashore!” called out McKay. The men took their bundles from the racks, crowded down the aisle, and out to the rickety station platform, where the ticket agent, lantern in hand, looked at them wonderingly. “I didn’t lose a man on the trip,” McKay said to the agent, in answer to the latter’s query of “What in _hell_?” “Well, boys,” went on McKay, “it is ten miles to where we camp, and there ain’t no hearses, so I guess we’ll have a nice little moonlight stroll.” The station settlement of Quentin consisted of a few scattered tents, and of five saloons, with badly spelled signs. One shack bore in large letters the proud legend: “Grocery Store.” It had evidently been adopted as a residence, for in smaller letters beneath the sign was painted: “This ain’t no store—Keep out!” Loring, with lazy amusement, read this evidence of a shiftlessness greater than his own. The crowd began to gravitate toward the saloons. “Hey, other way there!” shouted McKay, for he well knew that if the crowd began drinking there, very few would reach camp. A big Mexican, who had been imbibing heavily on the train, lurched toward the saloons, bellowing: “Me much _mal’ hombre_. I take a drink when I damn please!”