“Couple of whiskeys—straight—for me and the kid,” ordered Grant’s companion, as he came to a standstill in front of the bar.

“None for me!” said Grant quickly.

But, all the same, two glasses were set out, and the bottle placed beside them.

“Pour it out!” said the miner to the barkeeper. “I’m afraid the boy will get away.”

The barkeeper, with a smile, followed directions, and the two glasses were filled.

The miner tossed his off at a single gulp¹, but Grant left his standing².

“Why don’t you drink, boy?” demanded his companion, with an oath.

“I told you I wouldn’t,” said Grant angrily.

“We’ll see if you won’t,” said the miner, and, seizing the glass, he attempted to pour it 143down Grant’s throat, but his arm was unsteady from the potations he had already indulged in, and the whiskey was spilled, partly on the floor, and partly on the boy’s clothes. Grant seized this opportunity to dash out of the saloon, with the miner after him. Fortunately for him, Bill Turner, as he called himself, tripped and fell, lying prostrate³ for a moment, an interval⁴ which Grant improved to so good purpose that, by the time the miner was again on his feet, he was well out of harm’s way.

“I thought the drinking habit was bad enough at home,” thought Grant; “but no one ever tried to make me drink before.”

And now we will go back and see how it fared with Mr. Cooper.

Some quarter of a mile from the Metropolitan⁵ Hotel and Restaurant his attention was drawn⁶ to a blacksmith’s shop. That was his own line of business, and he felt a curiosity to interview his California brother-workman.

Entering, he saw a stout⁷, black-bearded man in the act of shoeing a horse.

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