Webfoot had made even better time than the bear, and only the placid jack remained as a memento of the occasion. He was taken at the head of a long procession of miners and made the occasion for a call upon the whole round of fandango houses, and dispensaries of liquid rowdyism in the camp.
"Partners, aren't you getting somewhat rough with the little fellow?" asked a young man in unimpeachable black broadcloth.
"Why, it's Anthony Barstow! Look at the purple raiment! Man, you must have struck pay dirt."
"Yes, thank you, my claim has turned out to be a rich one. What will you take for the donk?"
"Help yourself. He's a maverick. What's that? Dog fight? Sic 'im, Rover!" and the fickle and drink-befuddled mob hurried off down the street to the newest excitement.
Anthony took half an apple from his pocket. "I was saving it for tomorrow, but do you think you could manage it, Little Pard?" The long ears lifted at once, and the soft hairy muzzle took the delicacy daintily out of his fingers. Anthony petted him and sauntered on, into the best of the gambling halls. He seated himself at a table presided over by a woman dealer.
"Monsieur, it is not permitted zat ze gamblair shall play," she told him courteously, with a flash of very beautiful white teeth.
"Ho! Ho! Barstow," roared Copper-down Hicks. "That's one on you! The madam, here, sees your brand new togs and thinks you tickle the green cloth for a livin'."