His face was deadly pale.  Either there was some suggestion of his fate in the faces of his audience, or some mysterious instinct told him of his danger.  He attempted to speak, but faltered, tottered, and staggered to the wings.

Fearful of losing his prey, “Boston” gave the signal and leaped upon the stage.  But at the same moment a light figure darted from behind the scenes, and delivering a kick that sent the discomfited humorist back among the musicians, cut a pigeon-wing, executed a double-shuffle, and then advancing to the foot-lights with that inimitable look, that audacious swagger and utter abandon which had so thrilled and fascinated them a moment before, uttered the characteristic speech:  “Wot are you goin’ to hit a man fur, when he’s down, s-a-a-y?”

The look, the drawl, the action, the readiness, and above all the downright courage of the little woman, had its effect.  A roar of sympathetic applause followed the act.  “Cut and run while you can,” she whispered hurriedly over her one shoulder, without altering the other’s attitude of pert and saucy defiance toward the audience.  But even as she spoke the poet tottered and sank fainting upon the stage.  Then she threw a despairing whisper behind the scenes, “Ring down the curtain.”

There was a slight movement of opposition in the audience, but among them rose the burly shoulders of Yuba Bill, the tall, erect figure of Henry York of Sandy Bar, and the colorless, determined face of John Oakhurst.  The curtain came down.

Behind it knelt the “California Pet” beside the prostrate poet.  “Bring me some water.  Run for a doctor.  Stop!!  Clear out, all of you!”

She had unloosed the gaudy cravat and opened the shirt-collar of the insensible figure before her.  Then she burst into an hysterical laugh.

“Manuela!”

Her tiring-woman, a Mexican half-breed, came toward her.

“Help me with him to my dressing-room, quick; then stand outside and wait.  If any one questions you, tell them he’s gone.  Do you hear?  HE’s gone.”

The old woman did as she was bade.  In a few moments the audience had departed.  Before morning so also had the “California Pet,” Manuela, and—­the poet of Sierra Flat.

But, alas! with them also had departed the fair fame of the “California Pet.”  Only a few, and these it is to be feared of not the best moral character themselves, still had faith in the stainless honor of their favorite actress.  “It was a mighty foolish thing to do, but it’ll all come out right yet.”  On the other hand, a majority gave her full credit and approbation for her undoubted pluck and gallantry, but deplored that she should have thrown it away upon a worthless object.  To elect for a lover the despised and ridiculed vagrant of Sierra Flat, who had not even the manliness to stand up in his own defence, was not only evidence of inherent moral depravity, but was an insult to the