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214 hat lower over his eyes, spread his feet a little more, and got ready for the last desperate chance.

But fate was against Pop. Twenty years before he might have struck that mark if he had been in top condition, but today, though he put his very soul into the effort, and though the ball for the third time was lobbed with the utmost gentleness through the air, his bullet banged vainly against the sheet of iron and the white, inoffensive ball continued on its way.

Words came in the throat of Pop, reached his opened mouth, and died there. He thrust the gun back into its holster, and turned slowly toward the crowd. There was no smile to meet his challenging eye, for Pop was a known man, and though he might have failed to strike this elusive mark that was no sign that he would fail to hit something six feet in height by a couple in breadth. When he found that no mockery awaited him, a sheepish smile began a

“Well, gents,” he muttered, “I guess I ain't as young as I was once. S'long!”

He shouldered his way to the door and was gone.

“That's about all, friends,” said the deputy crisply. “I guess there ain't any more clamorin's for a place today?”

He swept the crowd with a complacent eye.

“If you got no objection,” murmured a newcomer, who had just slipped into the room, “I'd sort of like to take a shot at that.”