farmer who evidently paid little attention to the subject of dress. He
said nothing, but looked in a lowering way at Yates, with something of
contempt and suspicion in his glance.

Yates had one receipt for making the acquaintance of all mankind. "Come
in, Mr. Bartlett," he said cheerily, "and try one of my friend's
excellent cocktails."

"I take mine straight," growled Bartlett gruffly, although he stepped
inside the open door. "I don't want no Yankee mixtures in mine. Plain
whisky's good enough for any man, if he _is_ a man. I don't take
no water, neither. I've got trouble enough."

The bartender winked at Yates as he shoved the decanter over to the
newcomer.

"Right you are," assented Yates cordially.

The farmer did not thaw out in the least because of this prompt
agreement with him, but sipped his whisky gloomily, as if it were a
most disagreeable medicine.

"What did you want me to take out?" he said at last.

"A friend and a tent, a jug of whisky and a lot of jolly good tobacco."

"How much are you willing to pay?"

"Oh, I don't know. I'm always willing to do what's right. How would
five dollars strike you?"