A Poisoned Spring

In our bunkhouse, three of the boys were about to turn in for the night. They had worked hard all day, driving cattle into the home pasture for the spring rodeo, and on the morrow they would have to work harder still, cutting out the steers and branding the calves.

"Who is this Professor?" asked Dan.

Jimmie, who was rubbing tallow onto his lariat, answered, "There's a piece about him in the Tribune."

Pete picked up the county paper, which happened to be lying on the floor. He read aloud, in a sing-song drawl, "'We are greatly honored by the presence amongst us of Professor Adam Chawner, the eminent surgeon and pathologist—'"

"How's that?" demanded Dan.

"Surgeon and path-ologist."

"What's path-ologist?"

Pete spat out a contempt for ignorance which he was too polite to put into words. Then he said smoothly, "A pathologist is a kind of pathfinder. Comes from the Greek, I reckon: path-logus—skilled in finding new paths to knowledge. See?"

"If you ain't a walking dictionary!"

"It comes natural to me," Pete admitted modestly. He continued, "'The Professor, instead of taking a well-earned holiday in our land of roses and sunshine, proposes to study at first hand the micrococci of a deadly disease which, we are given to understand, is peculiar to this part of California....'"

"Never heard of a deadly disease peculiar to these parts," said Jimmie thoughtfully, "always excepting Annie-dominie."

"'Peculiar to this part of California,'" continued Pete, "'and likely, given certain conditions, to develop into an epidemic as terrible and mysterious as the sleeping sickness.'"

"Sleeping sickness? What's that?"

"Dan, your ignorance is disgraceful. Sleeping sickness is common as hives among the cannibals. After a square meal of missionary, the critters fall asleep, and they don't never wake up neither. Serve 'em right, too."

"Go on, Pete."

Pete, with a thick thumb upon the right line, went on, "'The Professor's researches here may prove of vital importance. And, speaking for our fellow-citizens, we venture to assure this distinguished pathologist of our cordial desire to cooperate, so far as it may be possible, in the important work which he has undertaken.'"

"Slings words, that feller," remarked Jimmie. "But what in thunder is Professor Adam Chawner a-doin' in Paradise?"

"Come, maybe, to see you rope steers," suggested Dan.

"I shall aim not to disappoint him," replied Jimmie. "All the same, I ask you fellers straight: Has he come here to—work?"

"Meaning?"

"If this here deadly disease is on the rampage, I, for one, 'd like to know it."

"Me too," drawled Dan.

A silence followed as Jimmie coiled up his rope. Pete began to remove his boots.

Dan, very furtively, placed a finger upon his pulse. Then he said with constraint, "Boys, I don't want any joshing. I've not felt extra spry lately."

"Same here," said Jimmie quickly.

Pete smiled sarcastically. "A little bird told me," he remarked slowly, looking at Dan, "as how Miss Mary Willing was seen a-buggy-riding last Sunday with Jack Rice."

"It's true," said Dan, shortly. "Me and Mamie is at outs. If I was dying, I couldn't forgive her!"

"You don't say?" cried Jimmie. "Well, Miss Edna Parkinson and yours truly ain't going to speak never no more, neither. That hound Ike Greenberg has cut in with a new Prince Albert coat. It's upset me considerable."

"My trouble ain't heart only," said Dan.

"Stomach?" suggested Pete.

"All overish, mostly."

"You ain't been reading the advertisements of quack doctors, have ye?"

"Not since I was twenty. They did give me fits at one time. Boys"—he began to scratch himself furiously—"I've a feeling as if I was afire inside."

"Maw used to give me sarsaparilla," said Jimmie.

"My folks," observed Pete, "never took nothing but castor oil. Must have downed a barrel of that when I was a kid."

"This thing is driving me crazy," said Dan.

"Well," replied Pete deliberately, "I know what I'd do, and I'd do it quick. This here Professor is on the ranch, and he's a dandy. After the rodeo, you just sashay up to him and tell him what you've told us. If he don't take the kinks out of you, he's a fraud. See!"

"Gosh," exclaimed Dan, "I'll do it!"

They turned in.

The Professor next day watched the rodeo from a platform erected near the biggest of our corrals. This was his first visit to California, and he was mightily impressed by the skill and vigor of the vaqueros. To Ajax he declared that he was amazed to find such splendid specimens in that particular locality. Ajax smiled. "We have not much," he said, "but we feel that we have a right to expect high health. We used to say," he added, "that sickness was unknown in our hills till a wise doctor settled here from the East."

The Professor frowned. "I rose at six," he said austerely. "I made a microscopical examination of the water in your new spring, which rises, I venture to remind you, through soil which is undoubtedly diatomaceous."

"That sounds awful."

"Diatoms in a fossilized condition are silicious, and they are to be found in Virginia, in Bermuda, and here."

"Professor, I am an ignoramus."

"Then it is my duty to inform you that the man or woman who drinks water from that spring is swallowing millions of tiny flint knives, hard as diamond dust—indeed, diatomaceous earth is used commercially as a polishing powder."

"You mean that if we drink that water we shall be polished off?"

The Professor glared. Like many distinguished scientists, he took himself seriously, and he knew that this was a serious matter. "Those tiny flint knives cut to ribands the mucous membrane."

"Fortunately," said Ajax, "we don't drink that water. The spring was only developed a few days ago." In a graver voice he continued: "We are exceedingly obliged to you. Of course we shall warn our men."

"Has nobody drunk of that spring?"

Ajax thought that he detected a note of disappointment. He replied reflectively: "I don't think so. The cattle have used it. It doesn't seem to have affected them."

"Are you sure of that?" he demanded sharply.

"You can ask our foreman."

Later, the Professor did so. Uncle Jake came out of the corrals, carrying a branding iron, and found himself confronted by a short, thick-set man with prominent, slightly congested gray eyes, which shone keenly out of an immense head. "I am Professor Chawner, of the Smithsonian. I wish to ask you a question."

"Professor, I'm happy to meet ye. It tickles me to death to answer questions. And I stand by the editor of the Tribune. If I kin cooperate in your important work, why, count me in."

The Professor raised his grizzled brows in astonishment, but he said politely, "I am very much obliged to you. My question is this: 'Do the cattle drink at the spring which bubbles out of that hill yonder?'"

"Some of 'em do."

"Regularly?"

"Not to say regularly, Professor. It's this way with cattle on a ranch as well watered as ours. They drink when they feel like it, and they drink where the water is handy to the feed. Come to think of it, there never has been much feed around that spring; and it never flowed good and hard till we opened it a few days ago."

"Since you opened it, to your personal knowledge, have cattle drunk of it?"

Uncle Jake scratched his head. The Professor's manner was impressive. "Have you seen cattle actually drinking that water?"

"I dunno as I have. I've seen 'em standing in it."

"Animals have remarkable subjective intelligence—what you would term instincts. It would be extremely interesting to determine whether such instincts have prevented them from drinking water unfit for animal consumption."

"Unfit for animal consumption? By gosh, that's what killed our cow, I reckon! We found her lying by the spring, cold and stiff, two days ago!"

"Have you buried the carcass?"

"Not much. Turkey-buzzards attend to our cow funerals."

"Of course. You look excited, my friend."

"I am. We've lost other cattle and colts in this here pasture."

"Ah!" murmured the Professor. His expression became benign.

"We supposed," continued Uncle Jake, "that they died of old age."

"You mentioned colts?"

"I did so. Colts die anyhow and anyway. It's a solid fact that we've lost more animals in this pasture than anywhere else. I'll take my oath to that."

"Good!" said the Professor heartily. "You have given to me information of value."

The Professor returned to the corrals. Under the trees, close to the creek, in whose cooling waters stood bottles of beer and wine, a tender calf was being barbecued. Upon long willow spits sizzled and frizzled toothsome morsels, made more toothsome by the addition of a sauce cunningly compounded of chilies, tomatoes, and the pungent onion. The Professor made a noble meal. He was delighted to observe how few of the guests slaked their thirst with water, and he quoted the famous quatrain:

"Let princes revel at the pump; Let peers with ponds make free; But whisky, beer, or even wine, Is good enough for me."

After the rodeo, the Professor lighted a large cigar and composed himself under a live oak. His mind, ever active, was wandering through the home pasture seeking the fatal spring. He was trying to estimate the effect of silicious matter upon the mucous membrane of a cow, when he saw Dan, sombrero in hand, bowing low before him.

"Hello!" said the Professor, his eye resting professionally upon Dan's splendid proportions. What a "subject" to cut up! What a skeleton to articulate!

"Professor!" said Dan, "I want you to have a look at me."

The Professor looked at him. "My young friend," he said genially, "you're worth looking at. Do you drink water?"

"When I can't get nothing else," replied Dan.

"Water it is, and lots of it, except when I strike town."

"If you must drink water," said the Professor with authority, "have it distilled."

"Jerusalem!" exclaimed Dan. "That's a gilt-edged idea. Professor, you're a pathologist, ain't you?"

The Professor nodded. Genius, however exalted, acknowledges unsolicited testimonials from any source. He saw plainly that in Dan's eyes he loomed gigantic. "I am," he replied graciously.

"A pathfinder, a seeker-out of new tracks to knowledge?"

"You might express it worse," said the Professor. "What can I do for you?"

"I'm a mighty sick man," said Dan solemnly.

The Professor was so astonished that he nearly bit through his excellent cigar; but at once a flame sparkled in his gray eyes. If Dan, with his appearance of robust health, was really a mighty sick man, why, then, his case challenged attention. He stood up and, so to speak, spread his wings, hovering over his lawful prey. "What's wrong?" he demanded.

"I'm afire with itching. At this moment I feel as if some devilish imps was sticking needles into me."

The Professor felt his pulse, looked at his tongue, and nodded sapiently. "You've been drinking the water of that new spring."

"I have. I helped open it up."

"Did you drink much of it?"

"Oceans!"

"My poor fellow, I am distressed beyond words. I promise you that you shall have every care and attention. I won't leave this ranch till—till the end."

"The end?"

"You are a remarkable specimen—probably you will make a gallant fight—but I cannot disguise from you—it would be criminal to do so—that you ought to put your house in order."

"Haven't got no house," said Dan, not quite comprehending, but sadly frightened. "Me and Mamie expected to build next year, but that's off."

"Next year!" echoed the Professor testily. "The question is: Where will you be next week?"

Dan staggered.

The Professor, having long retired from active practice, remembered with a qualm that he might have broken this appalling news more considerately. He said quietly, "I beg your pardon. I ought to have tempered this; but you are an American, and strong enough at this moment to know the truth. I may pull you through. Without boasting, there is not another man in America, or Europe either, who would say as much."

"Christopher Columbus!"

"I don't call myself that," said the Professor modestly, "but I may claim to have discovered pathogenic continents. Now, my boy"—he took hold firmly of Dan's arm—"I am going to put you to bed."

"No, you ain't," said Dan. "I've chores to do. I can't be spared."

The Professor nodded. "You're a stout fellow. After all, half an hour won't make any material difference."

"In half an hour you'll find me in the bunkhouse. I'm obligated to ye," he added hastily. "So long!" He strode off. The Professor nodded approvingly. He had grit himself, and esteemed it highly in others.

"I must pull him through," he muttered.

When the Professor reached the bunkhouse, he found three tall strong men awaiting him. Their faces, tanned by many suns, exhibited a curious uniformity of tint—the color of dirty gruel. Dan said in a voice that trembled, "These are my friends, Jimmie Barker and Pete Holloway. They helped open up that darned spring. They drank a plenty of the water. Jimmie, here, couldn't get enough of it. They've the same symptoms as I have."

Jimmie and Pete writhed. "Pins and needles all over," said Pete.

"Went to sleep on an ants' nest once," said Jimmie faintly. "This is a heap worse."

"Heaven help you!" ejaculated the Professor.

"'Pears to me," said Dan solemnly, "from what you said just now, we're in the mulligatawny."

The Professor muttered something encouraging, but he remembered the cow. "To bed with you," he commanded.

Within half an hour everyone on the ranch had heard the news. The Professor alone remained monumentally impassive. "All that is humanly possible shall be done," he affirmed.

"And your treatment?" said I.

"I have no drugs here, but already I have dispatched a man to San Lorenzo for strychnia, which in the first stage is invaluable. Meantime I must do what I can with whisky. Have you plenty of whisky?"

"Yes, but—"

"I want a gallon of it."

"Of course you are aware—you know, I mean—"

The Professor waved a powerful arm; beneath his shaggy brows his gray eyes sparkled angrily. "I know what I am doing," he said sharply, "and I cannot waste valuable time imparting to a layman knowledge gathered during a lifetime. The whisky, please—at once."

I obeyed meekly. Five minutes later, the Professor was walking towards the bunkhouse with a gallon demijohn tucked under his arm. A quarter of an hour afterwards he might have been seen returning. His eyes were positively snapping with vigor and excitement, for he loved a fight for a fight's sake. Ajax met him. "Professor," he said, "I don't want you to impart the knowledge of a lifetime to me, but do, please, tell us something. We are on edge with anxiety."

The man of science melted. With a shrug of his massive shoulders, he said, mildly for him, "My dear sir, I will try to gratify a not unreasonable curiosity. I did not wish to alarm you prematurely this morning, but the worst has happened. The silicious fragments in that confounded earth have lacerated terribly the mucous membranes of these three unfortunate young men. That in itself is a matter of small importance. The mucous membrane is most delicate, but it has quite amazing capacities of repairing itself. The point is this. The water in that spring, and—I'll be perfectly frank—the water in most of the surface springs in this particular locality, is simply swarming with pathogenic germs, and amongst them I identified this morning the as yet unnamed coccus which I had the honor to discover, and which is as deadly as the coma bacillus of Asiatic cholera, or—shall I say?—the highly specialized venom of the rattlesnake."

"Great Scott!"

"This coccus, my dear friend, increases and multiplies under certain conditions.

It exacts a highly lacerated condition of the mucous membrane into which it burrows. Fortunately it is rare; fortunately, also, it is seldom found in water which has filtered through diatomaceous earth; for these fossilized deposits are only found here and there, and, as a rule, not near water."

"They are three good fellows."

"I hope to pull them through," said the Professor stoutly. "For the moment there is nothing more to be done. They are in bed, and, not to put a fine point on it, half drunk. Alcohol stupefies the cocci, but it does not destroy them. I shall pour whisky down their throats till the drugs I have ordered arrive from San Lorenzo. I have told your foreman that my patients are not to be disturbed. After supper I shall administer another dose of whisky."

An hour later, the Professor, accompanied by me, returned to the bunkhouse. "I hope to find them asleep," he said. "I gave them enough alcohol to induce stupor."

"How much?"

"At least a quart."

I said with deference, "I do not presume to question your treatment, but cowboys can carry an amazing quantity of whisky. Alcohol is a stimulant-narcotic, isn't it?"

"Perfectly."

"It stimulates first. Speaking from a variegated experience of cowboys, I should say that a quart of well-matured bourbon would barely suffice to stimulate three powerful young men."

"Um!" said the Professor thoughtfully. "I had not considered that. They assured me they were water drinkers. However, a mistake of that sort is easily rectified."

So speaking, he tiptoed to the door of the bunkhouse, and, finger upon lips, entered. Immediately a sharp exclamation indicated that something surprising had occurred.

I followed quickly, to find the Professor staring, pop-eyed, at three vacant bunks. "Gone!" said the Professor, in stupefaction.

"They can't have gone far, sir."

But within five minutes judgment upon this important point had to be suspended. Uncle Jake had obeyed instructions only too well. He had not been near the bunkhouse. Indeed, he and the other ranch hands had been eating supper more than a hundred yards away. He was the first to suggest that no cowboy traveled far afoot—a suggestion that sent the Professor at a smart trot towards the big barn. Here, also, were three vacant stalls.

The Professor's patients, illustrating pathetically the ruling passion, had mounted and galloped away. Uncle Jake said, with a curious air of conviction, "It's my idea that they want to have one good time in town before they cash in their checks."

"Incredible!" ejaculated the famous pathologist. He looked askance at me. I replied hesitatingly, "I think it is possible, perhaps probable."

"If they're making San Lorenzo," said Uncle Jake, "we'll find their store clothes gone too." We hastened to the bunkhouse. Yes, upon the floor lay flannel shirts and jumpers and overalls. In a corner, where the Professor had left it, stood the demijohn of whisky. Uncle Jake lifted it. "Gosh," said he, "the whisky's gone, too!"

"Thank Heaven!" muttered the Professor, wiping his forehead.

"Why?"

"Don't you understand? By the luck of things, they've taken their medicine!"

"A quart apiece!" I gasped. "We shall find them dead drunk on the road."

Uncle Jake delivered himself: "It's my idea that they've just filled up three bottles. There's a rubbish heap outside."

"We must follow them," said the Professor, grimly. He was no horseman, and San Lorenzo was six-and-twenty miles away.

"Yes," said Uncle Jake.

As they approached the barn, the Professor whispered to me, "There is nothing to regret. If I can get these boys into the County Hospital before tomorrow morning, I shall have done a splendid night's work. Pick me out a decently mannered horse."

After the Professor had administered the first dose of alcohol, his patients lay quiet for at least three minutes. Then Jimmie said dolefully, "Badly as she's treated me, I'd like to kiss my Edna good-bye."

In the silence that followed, Pete's rather rasping voice was heard: "I ain't got no best girl!"

"You're in luck," groaned Dan. "This may break poor Mamie's heart. When I'm gone, she'll remember that once I was the greatest thing on this green earth to her."

Presently Pete remarked: "Surgeon and pathologist is the Professor."

"Meaning?"

"Like as not he'll operate."

"Operate?"

"Cut us open, you darned fool!"

Dan retorted savagely: "Now you're so near your end, I'd go easy with such talk, if I was you."

"I beg your pardon," said Pete, "but I'm scared of the Professor's eye. Anyways, sink or swim, I'll have no man getting his knife into me."

Dan sat up. "Boys," he said emphatically, "you can do as you please, but I'm going to have a last kind word with my Mamie." He slipped out of his bunk.

"Me too," said Jimmie. He glanced at Pete, who lay still. "My regards to the Professor, and tell him that he'll find us at old man Greiffenhagen's. I'll have one more taste of happiness before I die."

Dan hauled out his battered trunk and opened it. Pete sat up. "Talking of tasting, so will I," said he. "Give me that there demijohn. I'll die like the Duke of Clarence."

Jimmie picked up the demijohn and looked at it with lingering eyes. "Sorry I promised Maw to let whisky alone."

"If it comes to that," said Pete, "what's the matter with calling it medicine?"

"Gee! So it is." He took out the cork and tipped up the demijohn, balancing it skillfully upon his right forearm.

"Pass it over," said Pete.

"After you," added Dan.

"Go easy," said Pete shortly. "You two fellers mean to expire in the arms of ministering angels. Leave the demijohn with me."

"What! You'd hog all the medicine? Why, Pete Holloway, I thought you was white!"

"Put that demijohn down."

Dan glanced at Jimmie, who was drawing on his best pants. "Say, Jimmie, we'll have to take the medicine along. There's plenty for Pete in the cellar."

Pete slipped out of his bunk. "Look ye here," he said. "I ain't going to face the Professor alone. I'll come with ye, but let there be no hugging before me; and, I say, divide the medicine."

"Now you're talking," said Dan approvingly.

The three men dressed rapidly, opened the door, and peered out. Nobody being in sight, they secured three empty bottles, which they filled with the medicine. Five minutes later they were leading their saddle horses out of the barn. Unobserved, they mounted and took the road.

"How are you two feeling?" said Pete, as they broke into an easy lope.

"Thunder and Mars!" exclaimed Dan. "It's a doggoned fact, but I'm feeling fine."

"It's the medicine," said Jimmie, athirst for more.

"The Professor's a stem-winder, and no mistake," said Pete. "Let's drink his health—once." They did so—twice.

Old man Greiffenhagen's was about two miles distant. With him lodged Miss Edna Parkinson and Miss Mary Willing. These young ladies were bosom friends, and members of the Women's Christian Temperance Union. We describe them adequately enough by adding that they were capable, pretty and good.

By this time it was nearly nine o'clock, but a light shone in the Greiffenhagen parlor.

As the young men dismounted and hitched their horses to the fence, the strains from an American organ were heard.

Pete rapped upon the door, which was opened by Greiffenhagen. He kept the village store, which was also the post office, and although German himself, had married an American wife. Pete said in a loud voice, "It's kind of late, but this is a P.P.C. call."

As he spoke, there was wafted to the nostrils of Greiffenhagen the familiar fragrance of bourbon. He glanced at Dan and Jimmie. Each appeared almost abnormally sober and solemn. At this moment Miss Mary Willing flitted up. "Why, it's Mr. Holloway!" she exclaimed stiffly.

The three entered. As they passed the threshold, Jimmie stumbled, but recovered himself. He saluted the ladies with decorum, and the three sat down upon the edge of the chairs that were offered to them. Then Miss Edna Parkinson, who was the only person present besides Pete who understood what was meant by a P.P.C. call, and who knew also that, the big rodeo being over, it was possible that the three cowboys had been discharged, said sympathetically, "You ain't leaving these parts, are you?"

Pete answered grimly: "It's more than likely that we are."

Edna glanced at Mamie, who was sniffing. "What is it I smell?" she asked.

"Medicine," said Dan. He knew that Pete, the walking dictionary, could be trusted to break the appalling news to these unhappy girls. He glanced at Mr. Holloway and nodded.

"Yes," said Pete, "you smell medicine. It was prescribed by the distinguished surgeon and pathologist, Professor Adam Chawner."

"Prescribed? Why?"

Once, in the dear dead days that were gone, Pete had owned a best girl, who had treated him ill. Ever since he had exhibited a not too chivalrous desire to "get even" with the fond but fickle sex. Also he had no respect for the W.C.T.U. "The trouble came of drinking too much water."

"Too much water?"

"We three have been wallowing at a poisoned spring. The Professor may pull us through, but it's no cert. Much the contrary. Likely as not you'll be attending our funerals within the week. Dan and Jimmie took a notion that they'd like to forgive ye, and I came along too because I reckon misery loves company. But I made this stipulation—no hugging before me, if you please."

"Is he—d-d-drunk?" faltered Edna.

"I'm nearly drunk," said Pete. "This here poison is same as rattlesnake poison. We've got to be kept filled plum up with whisky." He produced his bottle and placed it carefully upon the floor, then he added: "When I can't help myself, I count on you, old man"—he looked at Greiffenhagen—"to pour it down my throat."

"Dan," said Miss Willing, "can't you say something?"

"I'm razzle-dazzled," said Dan. "But I couldn't die without forgiving you."

"Edna," said Jimmie, with a sob in his voice, "I have no hard feelings left."

"These three beasts," said Mrs. Greiffenhagen, in a hard, unwavering voice, "are disgracefully and unblushingly intoxicated. Girls, leave the room!"

The girls looked at each other. Mamie Willing leapt to the situation. Upon a small marble-topped table reposed an immense family Bible. Mamie lifted it and approached Pete. "Swear on this that your terrible story is true."

"I swear," said Pete solemnly, and he kissed the Book.

Edna flung herself into Jimmie's arms; Mamie, after replacing the Bible, knelt sobbing at Dan's side. Pete said helplessly to old man Greiffenhagen: "Take me out of this!"

Mrs. Greiffenhagen said in the same hard monotone: "Mr. Greiffenhagen, either these men leave this house or I do."

The storekeeper led his wife aside and whispered to her. She nodded none too graciously, and he hurried from the room. "Where's he going?" asked Pete.

"He's going up to the ranch house," said Mrs. Greiffenhagen spitefully, "to fetch the Professor."

"Very right and proper," yawned Pete. "Would it be trespassing too much on your kindness to ask for three glasses? It's time we downed some more medicine, and I don't like to drink out of the bottle in this here parlor."

Mrs. Greiffenhagen folded her hands. She had been heard to declare in public that if she were dying, and a thimbleful of whisky would restore her to health and Mr. Greiffenhagen, she would not swallow it.

The three men took more medicine. Presently Mamie supported Dan to the sofa; Edna was sitting on the floor with Jimmie's head on her lap. Mrs. Greiffenhagen glared at Pete, who from time to time kissed his hand to her. Not till she heard footsteps on the porch outside did the good lady rise from her chair. She opened the door to admit her husband. He reeled in. "You too!" she said in a freezing voice.

Greiffenhagen explained. The boys were really poisoned, and whisky must be poured down their throats till stronger remedies arrived. The Professor, Ajax, and Uncle Jake were riding to San Lorenzo upon a wild-goose chase. He added that the boss was driving down with more whisky.

Within a few minutes I arrived with the whisky; and Mrs. Greiffenhagen was constrained to unbend. It was decided to put the men to bed, pending the arrival of the Professor. Two vaqueros were galloping after him in the hope of overtaking him before he had gone too far.

Dan was undressed and placed in Miss Willing's muslin-curtained bed; Jimmie, who would not permit his clothes to be removed, was laid upon the couch of Edna Parkinson. Pete was carried into the Greiffenhagen bedroom, and deposited, boots and all, upon a spotless white bedspread.

"Jiminy Christmas," said Greiffenhagen, "ain't it awful!"

At regular intervals the medicine was administered. Finally, what the Professor had desired came to pass. The three men lay senseless, breathing stertorously. To achieve this result more than a gallon of the best whisky had been used! Mamie and Edna began to exhibit symptoms of hysteria. "I'll never leave my Dan—never!" declared Mamie, when it was suggested that she should return to the parlor.

"Jimmie, dear," sobbed Edna, "if you'll promise me not to die, I'll never speak to Mr. Greenberg again!"

At about six the next morning Pete Holloway woke up. He opened his eyes, groaned deeply, and closed them again. "How are you feeling, Pete?" said I.

Pete groaned again, for memory of all that had passed came to him. With a tremendous effort he said, "I'm dying!" And he looked it.

In Miss Parkinson's bower, Jimmie Barker was saying faintly: "Kiss me good-bye, Edna; the hour has come!" Shortly before, Mamie had whispered to Dan: "Darling, can you forgive me?" And he had replied fervently: "Mamie, if Jack Rice can make you happy, you take him."

Greiffenhagen had tried to administer more medicine. The boys refused to touch it. Pete expressed the feelings of the others when he muttered: "I ain't going to cross the Jordan drunk!"

It seemed to me that the three men were sinking. Mrs. Greiffenhagen, an impassioned pessimist, was of opinion that they couldn't last another hour!

At nine, when our nerves had been strained to breaking point, Ajax and a big-bearded stranger galloped up to Greiffenhagen's house. "It's Doc. Elkins, of San Lorenzo," said a hired man.

"The boys are sinking!" sobbed Mrs. Greiffenhagen. "Where is the Professor?"

"I left him in San Lorenzo."

Elkins and Ajax rushed upstairs and into the Greiffenhagen bedroom. Elkins glanced at Pete, felt his pulse, and then said deliberately, "My man, you're dying of sheer funk! You've poisoned yourself with nothing more deadly than good Kentucky whisky! In six hours you'll be perfectly well again."

Pete heard, and pulled himself together. It struck him that this was not the first time that he had felt nearly dead after imbibing much whisky. "But the Professor?" he asked feebly.

"Professor Adam Chawner," said Elkins in a clear voice, "is in a strait-waistcoat at the County Hospital. He will get over this, but not so quickly as you will. He is quite mad for the moment about a deadly microbe which only exists in his imagination."

The partitions in most Californian houses are indecently thin. As Elkins's voice died away—and Pete said afterwards it was like a strain of heavenly music—a feeble cheer was heard from the chamber usually occupied by Miss Mary Willing. "Jimmie," cried Dan, "are you dead yet?"

"Not quite," came an attenuated whisper from the other side of the passage.

"We'll live to be married, old socks," continued Dan in a robuster voice, "but I've got the worst dose of prickly heat you ever saw."

The following day our three friends were riding the range. Six months afterwards, Professor Adam Chawner resumed his work at the Smithsonian Institute.