The pipe went about ten feet and landed in a pickle-keg.

I went after it and fished it out for the old fellow--not so much because I'm filled with a natural courtesy, as because I was curious to know the man that had got the best of dad.
He thanked me, and asked me across to the saloon side of the room to drink with him.

"I don't know as I've met you before, young man," he said, eying me puzzled.

"Your face is familiar, though; been in this country long ?" "No," I said; "a little over a month is all." "Well, if you ever happen around my way--King's Highway, they call my place--stop and see me.

Going to stay long out here ?" "I think so," I replied, motioning the waiter--"bar-slave," they call them in Montana--to refill our glasses.