"Oh, h.e.l.l!--he's up in the clouds. Take him over a Scotch and soda, Pete."

Phil looked up in time to intercept a wink between the speaker and one of his gang.

"h.e.l.lo, stranger! Just blowed in?"

"Yes!" answered Phil. "I am just off the train."

"Stayin' long?"

"Possibly!"

"All right,--what's your poison? It's my deal and your shout."

"Nothing for me, thanks!" replied Phil. "I've all I require here."

The broad-shouldered, clean-limbed fellow came over closer to Phil.

"Say, young man,--'tain't often Don McGregor stands drinks all round, but when he does 'tain't good for the health to turn him down. You've got to have one on me, or you and me ain't goin' to be friendly,--see."

Phil looked him over good-naturedly and smiled.

"Oh, all right; let her go!" he answered. "I'll have a small lemonade."

"What?" exploded the man who called himself Don McGregor.

A shout of laughter came from everyone in the bar-room.

"Didn't you ask me to name my drink?" put in Phil.

"Sure!"

"Well--I've named it."

"No, you ain't! Lemonade ain't a drink: it's a bath."

More merriment greeted the sally.

Phil flushed but held down his rising temper. He had had five years'

experience of self-effacement which stood him in good stead now.

"You're not trying to pick a quarrel with me?" he inquired quietly.

"Me? Not on your life! I ain't pickin' sc.r.a.ps with the likes of you.

But, for G.o.d's sake, man,--name a man-sized drink and be quick. The bunch is all waitin'."

Phil immediately changed his tactics.

"Thanks!" he answered. "I'll have a Scotch."

"That's talkin'."

The bar-tender came over with a bottle in his hand. "Say when!" he remarked to Phil.

"Keep a-going," put in Phil. "Up,--up!"

McGregor stood and gaped.

"That's 'nough!" said Phil easily, as the liquor was br.i.m.m.i.n.g over.

The bar-tender pushed along a gla.s.s of water. Phil pushed it back.

At a draught he emptied the liquor down his throat. It burned like red-hot coals, for he was unused to it, but he would have drunk it down if it had cremated him.

McGregor had made a miscalculation and he appeared slightly crestfallen as he turned from Phil and talked volubly to his comrades.

While they conversed, McGregor backed gradually, as if by accident, until he was almost touching Phil. Finally he got the heel of his boot squarely on Phil's toe, and he kept it there, pressing harder and harder every second, still talking loudly to those around him and apparently all oblivious of his action.

Even then Phil had no definite notion that it was not merely the clumsy accident of a half-intoxicated cowboy.

At last he poked the man in the back.

"Excuse me," he said, "but when you are finished with my foot I should like to have it."

"What'n the--Oh!" exclaimed the red-haired man, grinding his full weight on Phil's toe as he got off. "Was I standin' on you? Hope I didn't hurt you!" he grinned maliciously.

The pain was excruciating, but still Phil forebore with an effort, accepting the man's half-c.o.c.ked apology.

Suddenly a new diversion appeared in the shape of a half-witted boy of about twelve years of age, who slouched in evidently on the look-out for any cigar ends that might be lying about the floor.

The boy was clad raggedly and wore a perpetual grin.

"Hullo, Smiler!" cried one of the men. "Come and have a drink."

The boy shook his head and backed away.

McGregor made a grab at him and caught him by the coat collar. He pulled the frightened youngster to the counter and, picking up a bottle of whisky, thrust it under the lad's nose.

"Here, kid;--big drink! Ginger-beer;--good stuff!"

The boy caught the bottle in his hands, tilted it and took a gulp.

Then he coughed and spluttered, and spat it out, almost dropping the bottle as McGregor, laughing hilariously, laid hold of it.

"Come on, Smiler!--you got to finish this. Say, St.i.tchy,--let's make him drunk. Here!--you hold him."

The boy made that inarticulate cry which dumb people make when seized suddenly with fear.

Only then did it strike Phil Ralston that the lad was dumb, as well as half-witted.

The man whom McGregor addressed as St.i.tchy caught the boy and held him securely by the arms, tilting his head backward until he was unable to move. McGregor brought the bottle and was on the point of forcing the helpless Smiler to open his mouth, when the bottle was sent flying out of his hands and he staggered back against the counter from a blow on the side of the face from Phil's fist.