"Just Charles," one of them said, "the brightest, jolliest fellow we've ever had. It does one good to look at him. And he's downright. Say, Charles!" he called out, "I'm with you. Down with the Germans! I'm glad it's war. Let's get in and whop 'em."
The man leaning against the bar counter turned his head towards the speaker and scowled.
"A German," another of the customers at a table near at hand observed, sotto voce, to his comrade. "It's said that he's been over this side only a matter of six months, and chances are that he's a German agent, though he'd tell you that he's American to the backbone. A sulky-looking beggar."
"Say!" that individual began again, as he stretched over the bar, and once more tapped the bar-tender on the shoulder, "you said down mit Germans and Germany?"
"Aye, sure!"
"And what then? And down mit the Kaiser also?"
"Of course," flashed Charlie, "him first of all, because then it'll be easier to knock sense into the heads of the Germans."
There was a flash, a loud report, and a column of smoke just where the bar-tender had been standing. Men sprang to their feet; one rushed across to support the tottering figure of Charlie, while a second man sprang towards the individual who had been leaning against the counter. Then he recoiled, for a revolver muzzle looked steadily at him.
"Don't move," came in even tones from the rascal who had just fired. "Stand back every one of you, I mean business."
He backed to the door of the saloon, and pushed his way through it; then, turning on his heel, and thrusting his still smoking weapon into his pocket, he sped down the street, passed Jim and Dan, who were still discussing the question of war with animation, and so towards the mountain.