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gave Mr. Fraley one. Then he suddenly and unaccountably began telling his companion about his little girl baby, her dark film of hair, her slate-coloured eyes which eventually would turn brown, and her name, "Nessie Teeftallow Belshue."

"Looks like Belshue would raise hell about that."

"Looks like I'd raise hell about him keepin' my little gal."

"Oh, well, a baby nachelly goes with its mammy. Then you're goin' to marry Adelaide Jones anyway; you'll have some more."

"Yeh, that's right, too," admitted Abner, growing more despondent than ever. He felt so bad he was forced to take another drink. It was for such crises as this in a man's life that Adam distilled the forbidden fruit and invented whisky.

Presently Abner broke off this wandering conversation to listen to a certain change in the overtones of the noise among the mules.

Mr. Fraley listened, too. "They're puttin up a hell of a fight," he suggested.

But Abner's country ears diagnosed the screams of the mules with more precision that did his companion's.

"That ain't a fight, somethin's botherin' them mules."

"Hell, what could be botherin' 'em?" yawned the striker.

"Don't know, guess I better step down an' see."

Abner got up lazily and stretched himself in the cold night air.

"Hell," disparaged Fraley, "you drink too much liquor, Abner; if you prance down there ever' time them mules whicker, you'll be on the jump all night long."

"No, I tell you there's somethin' the matter with them mules," insisted Abner, with a faint suspicion edging his tone.

By this time the stable was a bedlam of noise, and Abner set off down the railroad dump. Fraley tried to discourage him but remained by the fire.

Abner found the outer rank of doors all closed. He unfastened a hasp and jerked open a door and entered just as he heard the peculiar scream of a mule in the act of kick-