But as the sultry night drew on toward one o'clock, Bill Day and his party felt their spirits revive a little.

The calculation had failed in one part, and it might in all.

Bill resumed his burlesque exhortations to the rough-looking "brethren" about him.

He tried to lead them in singing some ribald parody of Adventist hymns, but his terror and theirs was too genuine, and their voices died down into husky whispers, and they were more alarmed than ever at discovering the extent of their own demoralization.

The bottle, one of those small-necked, big-bodied quart-bottles that Western topers carry in yellow-cotton handkerchiefs, was passed round.