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“Once jes’ onced in the year o’ 49,
I met a fancy thing by the name o’ Keroline;
I never could persuade her for to leave me be;
She went and she took and she married me.”

His neighbor was ready with an original contribution:

“Once, once again in the year o’ ’64,
By the city of Whatcom down along the shore–
I never could persuade them for to leave me be–
A Siwash squaw went and took and married me.”

“What was you doin’ between all them years?” called Half-past Full.

“Shut yer mouth,” said the next singer:

Once, once again in the year o’ 71
(‘Twas the suddenest deed that I ever done)–
I never could persuade them for to leave me be–
A rich banker’s daughter she took and married me.”

“This is looking better,” said Bolles to Drake.

“Don’t you believe it,” said the boy.

Ten or a dozen years were thus sung.

“I never could persuade them for to leave me be” tempestuously brought down the chorus and the fists, until the drunkards could sit no more, but stood up to sing, tramping the tune heavily together. Then, just as the turn came round to Drake himself, they dashed their chairs down and herded out of the room behind Half-past Full, slamming the door.

Drake sat a moment at the head of his Christmas dinner, the fallen chairs, the lumpy wreck. Blood charged his face from his hair to his collar. “Let’s smoke,” said he. They went from the dinner through the room of the great fireplace to his office beyond.

“Have a mild one?” he said to the schoolmaster.

“No, a strong one to-night, if you please.” And Bolles gave his mild smile.

“You do me good now and then,” said Drake.

“Dear me,” said the teacher, “I have found it the other way.”

All the rooms fronted on the road with doors–the old-time agency doors, where the hostiles had drawn their pictures in the days before peace had come to reign over this country. Drake looked out, because the singing had stopped and they were very quiet in the bunk-house. He saw the Chinaman steal from his kitchen.

“Sam is tired of us,” he said to Bolles.

“Tired?”

“Running away, I guess. I’d prefer a new situation myself. That’s where you’re deficient, Bolles. Only got sense enough to stay where you happen to be. Hello. What is he up to?”

Sam had gone beside a window of the bunkhouse and was listening there, flat like a shadow. Suddenly he crouched, and was gone among the sheds. Out of the bunk-house immediately came a procession, the buccaroos still quiet, a careful, gradual body.

Drake closed his door and sat in the chair again. “They’re escorting that jug over here,” said he. “A new move, and a big one.”

He and Bolles heard them enter the next room, always without much noise or talk–the loudest sound was the jug when they set it on the floor. Then they seemed to sit, talking little.

“Bolles,” said Drake, “the sun has set. If you want to take after Sam–“

But the door of the sitting-room opened and the Chinaman himself came in. He left the door a-swing and spoke clearly. “Misser Dlake,” said he, “slove bloke” (stove broke).

The superintendent came out of his office, following Sam to the kitchen. He gave no look or word to the buccaroos with their demijohn; he merely held his cigar sidewise in his teeth and walked with no hurry through the sitting-room. Sam took him through to the kitchen and round to a hind corner of the stove, pointing.

“Misser Dlake,” said he, “slove no bloke. I hear them inside. They going kill you.”

“That’s about the way I was figuring it,” mused Dean Drake.

“Misser Dlake,” said the Chinaman, with appealing eyes, “I velly solly you. They no hurtee me. Me cook.”

“Sam, there is much meat in your words. Condensed beef don’t class with you. But reserve your sorrows yet a while. Now what’s my policy?” he debated, tapping the stove here and there for appearances; somebody might look in. “Shall I go back to my office and get my guns?”