Several of the Directors, thus instructed, started a complimentary laugh.

"Order, gentlemen! Orrderr!" said the President, severely, rapping with a
paper-cutter.

"We must have a Man, not a Whiffler!" Churm continued. "And I have one in
my eye."

Everybody examined his eye.

"Would you be so good as to name him?" said Old Brummage, timidly.

He wanted to see a Man, but feared the strange creature might be
dangerous.

"Richard Wade," says Churm. They did not know him. The name sounded
forcible.

"He has been in California," the nominator said.

A shudder ran around the green table. They seemed to see a frowzy
desperado, shaggy as a bison, in a red shirt and jackboots, hung about the
waist with an assortment of six-shooters and bowie-knives, and standing
against a background of mustangs, monte-banks, and lynch-law.

"We must get Wade," Churm says, with authority. "He knows Iron by heart.
He can handle Men. I will back him with my blank check, to any amount, to
his order."

Here a murmur of applause, swelling to a cheer, burst from the Directors.