It
was very tough to cut; they braid silk into their pig-
tails. Kwaagh.'
Mr. Beeson was speaking with his eyes shut, and
he wandered. His last word was a snore. A moment
later he drew a long breath, opened his eyes with
an effort, made a single remark, and fell into a deep
sleep. What he said was this:
'They are swiping my dust!'
Then the aged stranger, who had not uttered one
word since his arrival, arose from his seat and de-
liberately laid off his outer clothing, looking as
angular in his flannels as the late Signorina Festo-
razzi, an Irish woman, six feet in height, and weigh-
ing fifty-six pounds, who used to exhibit herself in
her chemise to the people of San Francisco. He then
crept into one of the 'bunks,' having first placed a
revolver in easy reach, according to the custom of
the country. This revolver he took from a shelf, and
it was the one which Mr. Beeson had mentioned as
that for which he had returned to the gulch two
years before.
In a few moments Mr. Beeson awoke, and seeing
that his guest had retired he did likewise. But be-
fore doing so he approached the long, plaited wisp
of pagan hair and gave it a powerful tug, to assure
himself that it was fast and firm. The two beds--
mere shelves covered with blankets not overclean--
faced each other from opposite sides of the room,
the little square trap-door that had given access to
the Chinaman's grave being midway between.
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