The Wildcat's siesta was interrupted by a rumbling voice which emanated from a chesty policeman who was engaged in dishing out a little earnest advice to the proprietor of the hotel. The officer raised his voice for the benefit of the brunet assemblage.

"Trouble is trouble. If yez have business on th' street, attind to ut, but save th' loafin' f'r another day. Wid all thim I.W.W. bugs, this nigrah parade tonight is apt to flash into a race riot. If it does, th' chief ain't goin' to stan' no foolin'. The guns'll begin barkin' worse than a Chinee New Year. Don't look for no trouble an' you won't find it. You boys ain't much in favour in this town right now, an' wan false move in tonight's parade might make a stampede out of it, wid all th' dark complexions in town three jumps ahead of some red-hot buckshot."

The Wildcat shrivelled up in his chair. The policeman's warning made him homesick. He resolved to stick close to the home plate. "Ah don't crave no paradin' roun' whah at white folks is. Dese uppity yaller niggahs sho' heads fo' trouble when dey starts speakin' white folks' talk. Wish't ol' Cap'n Jack was here. He'd sho' learn 'em, did dey start sumpin'. Like as not ol' Cap'n Jack tear down a lamp post an' beat de parade ovah de head wid it. Parades is all right fo' crematizin' ceremonies. All right fo' de Ahmy boys. All right fo' funerals an' lodges. Outside o' dat dey's dangerous. Me, Ah sees kin I sleep me some mo'."

His slumbers were again interrupted by the entrance of the porter whose acquaintance he had made en route from The Dalles to Portland.

"Boy, howdy."

The Wildcat sat up and blinked a pair of heavy lids over his bulging eyes. "Doggone if it ain't mah ol' fish podneh. Sho's glad to meet up wid you. How is you?"

"Tol'able, 'ceptin' I's rushed. Us got to work dis fish business fast. I don't git me no lay-over. Ol' Pullman boy's done switched me to de midnight run fo' San F'mcisco on de train what leaves at one o'clock in de mawnin'. Dat's why I ain't change' my unifawm. How is you? Did de man give you de money fo' de train robbeh letter?"

The Wildcat's face, which had lightened in greeting his partner in the smelt fish business, was suddenly overspread with a mask of melancholy. "Easy come, easy go. I's busted."

"How come you bust now, when dis mawnin' yo' back was broke wid a thousand-dollah letter?"

"Met up wid a Spindlin' boy what hit me wid some C.O.D. dice. Cleaned me."

"Sho' ha'd luck. You sho' got action. Neveh min', I'se got 'nuff to start de fish business wid. Dey's a parade tonight, and us cleans up big, sellin' fish to de parade niggers."

The pair launched into the working details of their fried fish business.

"Wilecat, I got me some rubbah boots. Us hires a wagon and rambles over to de C'lumbia River. We loads up on smelt fish an' rambles back. We fries de fish in de back end ob ol' wagon on a oil stove."

"Whah at's de oil stove? Whah at's de wagon?"

"Us rents de wagon from a livery stable boy I knows, fo' four bits. I knows where us kin git a oil stove f'm a boy on Front Street. Temporary, that is. Oil stoves comes high now."

"Le's go."

"Wait 'til I gits my rubbah boots."

The porter reappeared from his room wearing a pair of knee-length rubber boots.

"Sho' is de biggest boots I ever seed," the Wildcat commented.

The Wildcat held the door open until his companion had navigated the channel with the brace of ponderous violins which festooned his feet and trotted along towards the livery stable in cadence with the tromping extremities of Dwindle Daniels.

"Sho' is de biggest foot caves I ever seed. Was you in de army yo' could come from parade rest to 'tenshun without movin' dem boots."

At the livery stable Dwindle Daniels financed the rental of a light wagon and a heavy-set mule. The Wildcat gathered up the reins. "Set down fo' I starts," he advised. "Kain't tell about dese jug-heads."

The pair discovered presently that the mule's maker had omitted the high gear from the animal's mechanism, and the six-mile trip was accomplished at a four-mile gait. The mule was equally indifferent to leather and language. "'Spec' mebbe he's delicate. Some is. Comin' back I gits me a saplin' an' sees is he. No mule neveh konkered me yit."

They arrived presently at the bank of the fish-crowded Columbia River, where the business of loading their wagon with smelt occupied them for less than an hour.

"Neveh seed so many fish. Ol' river sho' is dusty wid fish. Did dese fish have laigs a boy couldn' git down de road past 'em."

With the work of the moment completed, Dwindle Daniels obeyed some instinct of neatness. He threaded his way out along an overhanging piece of driftwood to the clear water of the river, wherein he proposed to wash his hands.

The Wildcat watched him for a while and then broke into criticism. "How come yo' so neat? Yo' acts like a barber shop boy, all de time cleanin' up. Next thing you'll be cravin' bear grease fo' yo' hair an' a sprinkle o' bay rum."

"I craves to smell human," the porter returned. "All right fo' fish to smell like fish, but I prefers to let 'em win any smell race dey starts."

In replying to the Wildcat, Dwindle Daniels on his slippery perch half turned his head, and this carelessness precipitated a disaster which engulfed him. One of the ponderous boots slipped from the branch of driftwood and dragged the wearer's leg into the river. Thereafter for ten seconds the porter staged a windmill scene compared to which a cyclone in Holland looked like a quiet night on the Dead Sea. Finally the drag of old man Gravity won all bets. The Wildcat's bulging eyes witnessed a high dive entirely surrounded by frightened fish and the soft mud which lay two feet below the water surface. From the crater of the mud volcano the writhing form of the neat Dwindle Daniels finally emerged. His form-fitting environment of mud churned and splashed in a blast of agitated language. Somewhere in the vortex of the intimate ooze he had lost all traces of his religious training. He combed great handfuls of mud from his plastered features and snorted deep draughts of fresh air.

He excavated his eyes and then, disdaining the unstable footing offered by the driftwood, he ploughed his way ashore, up to his arm pits in water and mud.

On the bank the Wildcat had launched into his third conniption fit. He calmed down sufficiently to choke some language out of his vocal organs.

"Yo' sho' looks neat now. Ain't seed such a ruckus since de flood hit Memphis. I knowed dem was hoodoo boots. Bam! Down yo' goes like a ol' hell diver. Mawnin'! Up yo' comes like a ol' mud turtle. Git in de wagon, Mud Turtle. On de way home you dries out. Leave dat mud git dry befo' you tries to brush it off."

Dwindle Daniels spent an hour on the way home in hatching himself out of a shell of mud.

"Neveh min', ol' Mud Turtle," the Wildcat comforted. "Us cleans up big money when us sells dese fish tonight."

At eight o'clock, under a sputtering arc light on Front Street, the Wildcat and Dwindle Daniels were established in the business of selling fried fish and waiting for the rush of trade that would come when the parade passed them.

"Stan' clo............