Not unnaturally The Ridge boys failed to see anything offensive in language that had a gun behind it; and realising the futility of any further attempt to get away with a successful disturbance they wisely yielded to superior quickness at the draw.  With a whoop of resignation they rushed back to the dance-hall where the voice of the caller was exhorting the gents—­whose partners were mostly big, husky, hairy-faced men clumsily enacting parts generally assigned to members of the gentler sex—­to swing: 

“With the right-hand gent, first partner swing with the left-hand gent, first partner swing with the right-hand gent; first partner swing with the left-hand gent, and the partner in the centre, and gents all around!”

Back at the faro table now,—­the incident having passed quickly into oblivion,—­Sonora called to the dealer for “a slug’s worth of chips”—­a request that was promptly acceded to.  But they had played only a few minutes when a thin but somewhat sweet tenor voice was heard singing: 

   “Wait for the waggon,
    Wait for the waggon,
    Wait for the waggon,
    And we’ll all take a ride. 
    Wait for the waggon—­”

“Here he is, gentlemen, just back from his triumphs of The Ridge!” broke in Nick, whose province it was to act as master of ceremonies; and coming forward as the singer emerged from the dance-hall he introduced him to the assembled company in the most approved music-hall manner:  “Allow me to present to you, Jake Wallace the Camp favour-ite!” he said with an exaggeratedly low bow.

“How-dy, Jake!  Hello, Jake, old man!  How be you, Jake!” were some of the greetings that were hurled at the Minstrel who, robed in a long linen duster, his face half-blacked, and banjo in hand, acknowledged the words of welcome with a broad grin as he stood bowing in the centre of the room.

That Jake Wallace was a typical camp minstrel from the top of his dusty stove-pipe hat to the sole of his flapping negro shoes, one could see with half an eye as he made his way to a small platform—­a musician’s stand—­at one end of the bar; nor could there be any question about his being a prudent one, for the musician did not seat himself until he had carefully examined the sheet-iron shield inside the railing, which was attached in such a way that it could be sprung up by working a spring in the floor and render him fairly safe from a chance shot during a fracas.

“My first selection, friends, will be ’The Little—­’,” announced the Minstrel with a smile as he begun to tune his instrument.

“Aw, give us ‘Old Dog Tray,’” cut in Sonora, impatiently from his seat at the card table.

Jake bowed his ready acquiescence to the request and kept right on tuning up.

“I say, Nick, have you saw the Girl?” asked Trinidad in a low voice, taking advantage of the interval to stroll over to the bar.

Mysteriously, Nick’s eyes wandered about the room to see if anyone was listening; at length, with marvellous insincerity, he said: