'Yes, you villain; and I remember your part in it. I wonder how you can,
even at this remote date, laugh at it.' For I had a vivid recollection
of how, after a 'chaste and highly artistic performance of this
mediaeval play' had been given before a distinguished Toronto audience,
the trap door by which I had entered my box was fastened, and I was left
to swelter in my cage, and forced to listen to the suffocated laughter
from the wings and the stage whispers of 'Hello, Mr. Punch, where's the
baby?' And for many a day after I was subjected to anxious inquiries as
to the locality and health of 'the baby,' and whether it was able to be
out.

'Oh, the dear old days!' he kept saying, over and over, in a tone so
full of sadness that my heart grew sore for him and I forgave him, as
many a time before.

The sports passed off in typical Western style. In addition to the usual
running and leaping contests, there was rifle and pistol shooting, in
both of which old man Nelson stood first, with Shaw, foreman of the
mines, second.

The great event of the day, however, was to be the four-horse race,
for which three teams were entered--one from the mines driven by Nixon,
Craig's friend, a citizens' team, and Sandy's. The race was really
between the miners' team, and that from the woods, for the citizens'
team, though made up of speedy horses, had not been driven much
together, and knew neither their driver nor each other. In the miners'
team were four bays, very powerful, a trifle heavy perhaps, but well
matched, perfectly trained, and perfectly handled by their driver. Sandy
had his long rangy roans, and for leaders a pair of half-broken
pinto bronchos. The pintos, caught the summer before upon the Alberta