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ad sefenty-fife cends."

      "Get out!"

      "I alvays haf von brice vor all uf mine goots, und I nefer make a bractice uf dakin' off a cend; but I see dat you vas on der verge uf nerfus brosdration, und I vant to safe your life, so I vill sell you von pottle vor a hellufer-tollar."

      "I don't want it—I won't take the nawsty stuff!"

      "Dat vas too sheap at hellufer-tollar, but in your gase I vill make an eggsception, und you may haf von pottle vor a qvarter. Dake id qvick, before I shange my mindt."

      "Help! Take the w'etch away!"

      "Moses in der pulrushes! Vat you vant? Vas you dryin' to ruin me? Dot medicine gost me ninedy-dree cends a pottle, und I don'd ged a cend discoundt uf I puy dwo pottles. Dake a pottle ad dwenty cends, und I vill go indo pankrupcy."

      "Conductaw! Conductaw!" squawked Cholly.

      "What is all this noise about?" demanded the conductor, as he came hastily down the aisle and stood scowling at Cholly.

      He had overheard all that passed, and he was enjoying it as much as any of the passengers.

      "Conductaw," said the dude, with great dignity, "I wish you to instantly wemove this verwy insolent cwecher. He cwoded in thith theat without awsking leave."

      "Have you paid for a whole seat?"

      "I have paid one fare, thir, and ——"

      "So has this gentleman. He is entitled to half of this seat, if he chooses to sit here. Don't bother me again."

      The conductor walked away, and Cholly looked at Solomon, faintly gasping:

      "Thith gentleman! Gweat Scott!"

      Then he seemed to collapse.

      Solomon grinned, and lifted his hat to the conductor. Then he turned to Cholly.

      "Vill you half a pottle uf der Nearf Regulador ad dwendy cends?"

      "Let me out!" gurgled the dude. "I will not stay heaw and be inthulted!"

      "Set down," advised the Jew. "You ain'd bought a pottle uf medicine, und I can'd boder to mofe vor you."

      Cholly fell back into his seat, giving up the struggle. He turned his head away, and looked out of the window, while Solomon talked to him for ten minutes, without seeming to draw a breath. Cholly, however, could not be induced to purchase a single bottle of the "Nearf Regulador."

      All through this, Mr. Walker had not seemed to remove his keen eyes from the face of the boy at his side. The lad apparently enjoyed the affair between the Jew and the dude as much as any one in the car, laughing merrily, and seeming quite at ease.

      Somehow, Walker did not seem to be pleased at all. He appeared like a man with a very little sense of humor, or he had so much of grave importance on his mind that he did not observe what was going on behind him.

      When Cholly De Smythe had collapsed, and the Jew had ceased to talk, the boy squared about in his seat, and seemed to settle to take things in the most comfortable manner possible. He pulled his hat over his forehead, and continued his perusal of the newspaper.

      This did not satisfy his seat mate.

      "You seem to be very interested in that paper," said Walker.

      "I am," was the curt return, and the boy continued reading.

      "You are not much of a talker."

      "You are."

      "H'm! Ha! I am; I am very sociable."

      "So I observed."

      "I have been wondering what we would do if a band of robbers was to hold up this train."

      "I am sure I cannot tell what I would do. I scarcely think any person can tell what he would do in such a case till he meets the emergency."

      "I presume you go armed?"

      "In the West—yes."

      Walker's thin nose seemed to resemble a wedge which he was driving deeper and deeper with each question.

      "Would you mind permitting me to look at your revolver?"

      "Yes."

      The boy uttered that word, and remained silent, without offering to take the weapon out.

      Walker coughed.

      "H'm! Ha! I think you misunderstood me."

      "I think not."

      "I asked you if you would mind letting me look at your revolver."

      "And I said I would mind."

      "Oh!"

      The Jew's voice sounded in Walker's ear.

      "I haf a revolfer vat I vill sell you sheep. Id vas a recular taisy, selluf-cocker, und dirty-dwo caliber. Here id vas, meester. Id vas loated, so handle id vid care. Vat you gif vor dat peautiful revolfer, meester?"

      Walker took the weapon, glanced into the cylinder, to see that it was actually loaded, and then suddenly thrust it against the head of Frank, crying, sharply:

      "Hands up, Black Harry! You are my prisoner!"

      CHAPTER III.

       A THRILLING ACCUSATION.

       Table of Contents

      The words rang through the car, startling the passengers, and causing them to stare in astonishment at the man and the boy.

      The man with the revolver was quivering with excitement, while Frank, at whose head the weapon was held, seemed strangely calm.

      Exclamations were heard on all sides.

      "Black Harry!"

      "Is it possible?"

      "Not that beardless boy!"

      "It's a mistake!"

      "If that's Black Harry, his Braves are near, and there is liable to be some shooting before long."

      "Sufferin' Moses!" came from the Jew, who owned the revolver. "Ish dat der ropper vat ve read apout der baper in? Stop der cars! I vant to ged off!"

      "What do you mean by this crazy act?" calmly demanded Frank, looking straight into Mr. Walker's eyes.

      "I mean business, and I am not going to fool with a fellow of your reputation a minute! If you don't put up your hands, I'll send a bullet through your head immediately!"

      "Then I shall put up my hands, for I have no fancy for having the top of my head blown off."

      Up went the boy's empty hands.

      "That's where you are sensible," declared the man with the foxy face. "I have dealt with your kind before, and I know better than to let 'em monkey with me. I am a man with a reputation for catching criminals. At the sound of my name, the professional crooks in the East tremble."

      "Walker does not seem to be such a very terrible name."

      "Walker—bah! That's not my name!"

      "No?"

      "Not much!"

      "Pray, what is your name, then?"

      "I am Burchel Jones, the famous detective," declared the owner of the gimlet eyes, swelling with importance. "Out in this country the fools call me a tenderfoot, but I will show them the kind of stuff I am made of. When they want to catch their desperadoes and robbers, they should send for a tenderfoot detective."

      The boy laughed outright.

      "You are more sport than a barrel of monkeys," he said, merrily. "What do you think you have done, anyway?"

      "I have captured Black Harry, the terrible desperado, who has been giving them so much trouble out here

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