A general shout of laughter went up, and the man who had been so anxious to enforce respect for the dead muttered something about feeling dry, and the keeper of the nearest bar was several ounces better off by the time the boys had given the joke all the attention it called for.

Had a dozen dead men been in the box their presence in the camp could not have occasioned half the excitement that the arrival of that lonely piano caused. But the next monring it was known that the insturment was to grace a hurdy-gurdy saloon, owned by Tom Goskin, the leading gambler in the place. It took nearly a week to get this wonder on its legs, and the owner was the proudest individual in the State. It rose gradually from a recumbent to an upright position amid a confusion of tongues, after the manner of the Tower of Babel.

Of course everybody knew just how such an instrument should be put up. One knew where the “off hind leg” should ago, and another was posted on the “front piece.”

Scores of men came to the place every day to assist.

“I’ll put the bones in good order.”

“If you want the wires tuned up, I’m the boy.”

“I’ve got music to feed it for a mouth.”

Another brought a pair of blankets for a cover, and all took the liveliest interest in it. It was at last in a condition for business.

“It’s been showin’ its teeth all the week. We’d like to have it spit out something.”

Alas! there wasn’t a man to be found who could play upon the instrument. Goskin began to realise that he had a losing speculation on his hands. He had a fiddler, and a Mexican who thrummed a guitar. A pianist would have made his orchestra complete. One day a three-card monte player told a friend confidentially that he could “knock any amount of music out of the piano, if he only had it alone a few hours to get his hand in.” This report spread about the camp, but on being questioned he vowed that he didn’t know a note of music. It was noted, however, as a suspicious circumstance, that he often hung about the instrument and looked upon it longingly, like a hungry man gloating over a beef-steak in a restaurant window. There was no doubt but that this man had music in his soul, perhaps in his finger- ends, but did not dare to make trial of his strength after the rules of harmony had suffered so many years of neglect. So the fiddler kept on with his jigs, and the greasy Mexican pawed his discordant guitar, but no man has the nerve to touch the piano. There were doubtless scores of men in the camp who would have given ten ounces of gold-dust to have been half-an-hour alone with it, but every man’s nerve shrank from the jeers which the crowd would shower upon him should his first attempt prove a failure. It got to be generally understood that the hand which first essayed to draw music from the keys must not slouch its work.

It was Christmas eve, and Goskin, according to his custom; had decorated his gambling-hell with sprigs of mountain cedar and a shrub whose crimson berries did not seem a bad imitation of English holly. The piano was covered with evergreens, and all that was wanting to completely fill the cup of Goskin’s contentment was a man to play the instrument.

“Christmas night, and no piano-pounder,” he said. “This is a nice country for a Christian to live in.”

Getting a piece of paper, he scrawled the words.

$20 REWARD

TO A COMPETENT PIANO PLAYER