From a tent saloon near by came the sounds of singing and of laughter, and thither he turned his steps. When he entered the place a lively scene greeted him. Somehow or other a small portable organ had been secured, and at this a bearded fellow in a mackinaw coat was seated. He was playing a spirited accompaniment for two women, sisters, evidently, who sang with the loud abandon of professional "coon shouters." Other women were present, and Phillips recognized them as members of that theatrical troupe he had seen at Sheep Camp--as those "actresses" to whom Tom Linton had referred with such elaborate sarcasm. All of them, it appeared, were out for a good time, and in consequence White Horse was being treated to a free concert. The song ended in a burst of laughter and applause, the men at the bar pounded with their glasses, and there was a general exodus in that direction. One of the sisters flung herself enthusiastically upon the volunteer organist and dragged him with her. There was much hilarity and a general atmosphere of license and unrestraint. Phillips looked on moodily; he frowned, his lip curled. All the world was happy, it seemed, while he nursed a broken heart. Well, that was in accord with the scheme of things--life was a mad, topsy-turvy affair at best, and there was nothing stable about any part of it. He felt very grim, very desperate, very much abused and very much outside of all this merriment. Men were playing cards at the rear of the saloon, and among the number was Sam Kirby. The old gambler showed no signs of his trying experience of the afternoon; in fact, it appeared to have been banished utterly from his mind. He was drinking, and even while Pierce looked on he rapped sharply with his iron hand to call the bartender's attention. Meanwhile he scanned intently the faces of all new-comers. When the crowd had surged back to the organ Pierce found a place at the bar and called for a drink of whisky--the first he had ever ordered. This was the end he told himself. He poured the glass nearly full, then he gulped the liquor down. It tasted much as it smelled, hence he derived little enjoyment from the experience. As he stripped a bill from his sizable roll of bank-notes the bartender eyed him curiously and seemed upon the point of speaking, but Pierce turned his shoulder. After perhaps five minutes the young man acknowledged a vague disappointment; if this was intoxication there was mighty little satisfaction in it, he decided, and no forgetfulness whatever. He was growing dizzy, to be sure, but aside from that and from the fact that his eyesight was somewhat uncertain he could feel no unusual effect. Perhaps he expected too much; perhaps, also, he had drunk too sparingly. Again he called for the bottle, again he filled his glass, again he carelessly displayed his handful of paper currency. Engaged thus, he heard a voice close to his ear; it said: "Hello, man!"