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 Honor'! To me, Clif, this man, Johnny Rick, looks rather a desperate character. Isn't he killing the gentleman with the drooping, black mustache in that picture?"

"Aw, dad!" whispered Clif.

"All right, but I'll ask for seats well away from the stage, son. Pistol shooting always makes me jump."

In spite of the fun Mr. Bingham poked at the entertainment provided by the Coliseum that evening, it would have been apparent to any one that he got more pleasure from it than the more blasé Clif. He became visibly excited when, in the fourth reel, the redoubtable hero, the aforementioned Mr. Rick, dashed into the deserted cabin, seized the heroine in his elastic-banded arms, with not even a glance at the sizzling fuse that led to the enormous can of dynamite, dashed out again and spurred his faithful horse to safety. Of course Clif knew perfectly well that the cabin wouldn't blow up until the hero was well out of the way, but apparently the idea hadn't occurred to his father, for the latter relapsed, exhausted by emotion, against Clif's shoulder. Fathers are sometimes very trying.

On Sunday there was a banquet for four at the Inn. Clif had all along intended to invite Tom to dinner on this occasion, but the inclusion of Walter in the party had been Mr. Bingham's idea. Not that Clif really minded. It merely hadn't and wouldn't have occurred to him. Walter was rather an addition, as it turned out, for "the beggar could talk about any