store in which he was loafing, and ordered a coil of half-inch rope from
New York by the morning's train.

It was the Overland route that SLUKER took for California, and when his
aged mother heard that three eyes had been gouged out in one day in the
Golden City, she wept tears of joy. Her fond heart told her that the
perilous journey was over, and her darling boy was safe.

After ten years of a brilliant career he bethought him again of the
place of his birth. His heart yearned for the gentle delights,--the
heavy laden trees--of his boyhood's home. He said he must go.

His friends said he must go, too. In fact they had already appointed a
select and vigilant Committee to see him safely on his way.

In some respects SLUKER came back an altered man. The stamp of change
was on his noble face, indeed it had been stamped on itself, until it
looked like a wax doll under a hot stove. But he still retained his
warlike spirit.

There was not so much chance of indulging it now, however. The Fire
Company had disbanded, and nearly every one had grown rich enough to own
a shot-gun. There was only one chance left.

He joined the Presbyterian Choir.

Not that he had much of a voice, though he used to play 'Comin' thro'
the Rye' oh the fiddle sometimes, until he got it going _through him_ so
much he couldn't draw a note.