The uproar shook the building, so hearty was the feeling the boys put
into their welcome. Up-stairs the uncle reproached the nephew gently,
saying:

"What did you get me into that engagement for?"

"I reckon you don't want to be unpopular, do you, uncle? Well, then,
don't you put on any exclusiveness in a mining-camp, that's all. The
boys admire you; but if you was to leave without taking a drink with
them, they'd set you down for a snob. And besides, you said you had home
talk enough in stock to keep us up and at it half the night."

The boy was right, and wise--the uncle acknowledged it. The boy was wise
in another detail which he did not mention--except to himself: "Uncle and
the others will come handy--in the way of nailing an alibi where it can't
be budged."

He and his uncle talked diligently about three hours. Then, about
midnight, Fetlock stepped down-stairs and took a position in the dark a
dozen steps from the tavern, and waited. Five minutes later Flint
Buckner came rocking out of the billiard-room and almost brushed him as
he passed.

"I've got him!" muttered the boy. He continued to himself, looking after
the shadowy form: "Good-by--good-by for good, Flint Buckner; you called
my mother a--well, never mind what: it's all right, now; you're taking
your last walk, friend."

He went musing back into the tavern. "From now till one is an hour.