A sort o' slow, quiet, easy place LIKE THIS." We all stared at him, Percy Briggs as fixedly as any.

But there was not the slightest trace of irony, sarcasm, or peculiar significance in his manner.

He went on slowly: "When I struck this yer camp a minit ago; when I seed that thar ditch meanderin' peaceful like through the street, without a hotel or free saloon or express office on either side; with the smoke just a curlin' over the chimbley of that log shanty, and the bresh just set fire to and a smolderin' in that potato patch with a kind o' old-time stingin' in your eyes and nose, and a few women's duds just a flutterin' on a line by the fence, I says to myself: 'Bulger--this is peace! This is wot you're lookin' for, Bulger--this is wot you're wantin'-- this is wot YOU'LL HEV!'" "You say you've business over at Bigwood.

What business ?" said Briggs.
"It's a peculiar business, young fellow," returned the stranger, gravely.

"Thar's different men ez has different opinions about it.