“Show him up,” repeated the editor firmly.

The foreman withdrew; the editor seated himself and again took up his proof.  The doubtful word “ignominious” seemed to stand out of the paragraph before him; it certainly was a strong expression!  He was about to run his pencil through it when he heard the heavy step of his visitor approaching.  A sudden instinct of belligerency took possession of him, and he wrathfully threw the pencil down.

The burly form of the stranger blocked the doorway.  He was dressed like a miner, but his build and general physiognomy were quite distinct from the local variety.  His upper lip and chin were clean-shaven, still showing the blue-black roots of the beard which covered the rest of his face and depended in a thick fleece under his throat.  He carried a small bundle tied up in a silk handkerchief in one hand, and a “shot-gun” in the other, perilously at half-cock.  Entering the sanctum, he put down his bundle and quietly closed the door behind him.  He then drew an empty chair towards him and dropped heavily into it with his gun on his knees.  The editor’s heart dropped almost as heavily, although he quite composedly held out his hand.

“Shall I relieve you of your gun?”

“Thank ye, lad—­noa.  It’s moor coomfortable wi’ me, and it’s main dangersome to handle on the half-cock.  That’s why I didn’t leave ’im on the horse outside!”

At the sound of his voice and occasional accent a flash of intelligence relieved the editor’s mind.  He remembered that twenty miles away, in the illimitable vista from his windows, lay a settlement of English north-country miners, who, while faithfully adopting the methods, customs, and even slang of the Californians, retained many of their native peculiarities.  The gun he carried on his knee, however, was evidently part of the Californian imitation.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the editor blandly.

“Ay!  I’ve coom here to bill ma woife.”

“I—­don’t think I understand,” hesitated the editor, with a smile.

“I’ve coom here to get ye to put into your paaper a warnin’, a notiss, that onless she returns to my house in four weeks, I’ll have nowt to do wi’ her again.”

“Oh!” said the editor, now perfectly reassured, “you want an advertisement?  That’s the business of the foreman; I’ll call him.”  He was rising from his seat when the stranger laid a heavy hand on his shoulder and gently forced him down again.

“Noa, lad!  I don’t want noa foreman nor understrappers to take this job.  I want to talk it over wi’ you.  Sabe?  My woife she bin up and awaa these six months.  We had a bit of difference, that ain’t here nor there, but she skedaddled outer my house.  I want to give her fair warning, and let her know I ain’t payin’ any debts o’ hers arter this notiss, and I ain’t takin’ her back arter four weeks from date.”

“I see,” said the editor glibly.  “What’s your wife’s name?”