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pistol from his pocket and drew it on the teamster. A shock went through Abner.

"Hey, what the hell!" he shouted, stopped in his tracks by the moral influence of the revolver. "Put down that gun!"

The little man stared with dilated eyes, but presently recognition dawned on his face, and he cried apologetically, "Oh, is that you, Mr. Teeftallow? I thought you were a striker. Come on down."

"Hell far," exclaimed Abner nervously, "what were you goin' to do—shoot him?"

"No, but I was going to make him go away."

Then Abner recognized Sim Pratt in creased overalls and buckskin gloves to keep the bucket handles from skinning his palms. He had a tan four-in-hand around the collar of his blue working shirt; and it all set Abner laughing.

"So you fin'ly got to come with the boys, Sim?"

"Yes," said Sim soberly, "I got to be water boy."

"I see you air. What kind of a weapon was that you pulled on me—wasn't it a thirty-two?"

"Yes, one I kept in the drug store."

Abner took off his hat and broke into large laughter.

"Got a thirty-two. Why, man, you shoot one of these country jakes with a thirty-two an' it would make him 'most mad enough to hit you. Out here in the country we use little dinkusses like that to throw kisses at the gals with." Abner laughed again, disregarding the brain storm which Mr. Pratt's thirty-two had just given him.

"What do you use?" asked Sim with a pink face.

"Somepin' when she barks you don't haff to strain yore years to find out whether she went off or not." Abner drew out a blue forty-five, swung it about in an expert manner, and put it back in his pocket.

"Well, how's ever'thing gittin' on, Sim?"

"All right, I guess."

"You made a hit with Beatrice Belle—goin' off to kill strikers with a great big gun like that."