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The editor paused in his proof-reading. He had just come upon the sentence: “We cannot congratulate Liberty Hill–in its superior elevation–upon the ignominious silence of the representative of all Calaveras when this infamous Bill was introduced.” He referred to his copy. Yes! He had certainly written “ignominious,”–that was what his informants had suggested. But was he sure they were right? He had a vague recollection, also, that the representative alluded to–Senator Bradley–had fought two duels, and was a “good” though somewhat impulsive shot! He might alter the word to “ingenuous” or “ingenious,” either would be finely sarcastic, but then–there was his foreman, who would detect it! He would wait until he had finished the entire article. In that occupation he became oblivious of the next room, of a silence, a whispered conversation, which ended with a rapping at the door and the appearance of the foreman in the doorway.

“There’s a man in the office who wants to see the editor,” he said.

“Show him in,” replied the editor briefly. He was, however, conscious that there was a singular significance in his foreman’s manner, and an eager apparition of the other printer over the foreman’s shoulder.

“He’s carryin’ a shot-gun, and is a man twice as big as you be,” said the foreman gravely.

The editor quickly recalled his own brief and as yet blameless record in the “Clarion.” “Perhaps,” he said tentatively, with a gentle smile, “he’s looking for Captain Brush” (the absent editor).

“I told him all that,” said the foreman grimly, “and he said he wanted to see the man in charge.”

In proportion as the editor’s heart sank his outward crest arose. “Show him in,” he said loftily.

“We KIN keep him out,” suggested the foreman, lingering a moment; “me and him,” indicating the expectant printer behind him, “is enough for that.”

“Show him up,” repeated the editor firmly.

The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took up his proof. The doubtful word “ignominious” seemed to stand out of the paragraph before him; it certainly WAS a strong expression! He was about to run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitor approaching. A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him, and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.

The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway. He was dressed like a miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinct from the local variety. His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, still showing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of his face and depended in a thick fleece under his throat. He carried a small bundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a “shot-gun” in the other, perilously at half-cock. Entering the sanctum, he put down his bundle and quietly closed the door behind him. He then drew an empty chair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on his knees. The editor’s heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quite composedly held out his hand.

“Shall I relieve you of your gun?”

“Thank ye, lad–noa. It’s moor coomfortable wi’ me, and it’s main dangersome to handle on the half-cock. That’s why I didn’t leave ‘im on the horse outside!”

At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash of intelligence relieved the editor’s mind. He remembered that twenty miles away, in the illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement of English north-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods, customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of their native peculiarities. The gun he carried on his knee, however, was evidently part of the Californian imitation.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the editor blandly.

“Ay! I’ve coom here to bill ma woife.”

“I–don’t think I understand,” hesitated the editor, with a smile.

“I’ve coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin’, a notiss, that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I’ll have nowt to do wi’ her again.”