with an exaggeratedly low bow.

"How-dy, Jake! Hello, Jake, old man! How be you, Jake!" were some of the
greetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed in a long linen
duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the words
of welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of the
room.

That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty
stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see
with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform--a musician's
stand--at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his
being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had
carefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which was
attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in
the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

"My first selection, friends, will be 'The Little--'," announced the
Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

"Aw, give us 'Old Dog Tray,'" cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seat
at the card table.

Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right on
tuning up.

"I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?" asked Trinidad in a low voice,
taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar.

Mysteriously, Nick's eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone was