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Achieving Service Oriented Architecture Applying an
Enterprise Architecture Approach 1st Edition Rick
Sweeney Digital Instant Download
Author(s): Rick Sweeney
ISBN(s): 9780470604519, 0470604514
Edition: 1
File Details: PDF, 3.63 MB
Year: 2010
Language: english
Achieving Service-Oriented
Architecture
Achieving Service-Oriented
Architecture
Applying an Enterprise
Architecture Approach

RICK SWEENEY

John Wiley & Sons, Inc.

Copyright

C 2010 by Rick Sweeney. All rights reserved.
Published by John Wiley & Sons, Inc., Hoboken, New Jersey.
Published simultaneously in Canada.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise,
except as permitted under Section 107 or 108 of the 1976 United States Copyright Act, without
either the prior written permission of the Publisher, or authorization through payment of the
appropriate per-copy fee to the Copyright Clearance Center, Inc., 222 Rosewood Drive, Danvers,
MA 01923, (978) 750-8400, fax (978) 646-8600, or on the web at www.copyright.com. Requests to
the Publisher for permission should be addressed to the Permissions Department, John Wiley &
Sons, Inc., 111 River Street, Hoboken, NJ 07030, (201) 748-6011, fax (201) 748-6008, or online at
www.wiley.com/go/permissions.
The figure “The Maturity Levels,” from the slide show “CMMI Overview,”
C 2005 Carnegie Mellon

University Mellon University, is used with special permission from its Software Engineering
Institute.
Any material of Carnegie Mellon University and/or its Software Engineering Institute contained
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Carnegie Mellon University does not make any warranty of any kind with respect to freedom from
patent, trademark, or copyright infringement.
This publication has not been reviewed nor is it endorsed by Carnegie Mellon University or its
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Limit of Liability/Disclaimer of Warranty: While the publisher and author have used their best
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data:

Sweeney, Rick, 1954–
Achieving service-oriented architecture : applying an enterprise architecture approach /
Rick Sweeney.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
ISBN 978-0-470-60451-9 (cloth)
1. Information technology–Management. 2. Management information systems.
3. Service-oriented architecture (Computer science) I. Title.
HD30.2.S93 2010
658.4 038011–dc22
2009050977
Printed in the United States of America

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
 Contents

Acknowledgments ix
Introduction xi
About the Web Site xix

PART I VALUE OF ENTERPRISE ARCHITECTURE AND SOA

CHAPTER 1 What Is an Architecture Practice, and Why Do You Need One? 3

Business Organizations and Departments Do Not Operate as
Isolated Islands 3
Looking at the Past to Understand the Future 5
Summary 7

CHAPTER 2 Why Is a Service-Oriented Architecture So Valuable? 9

Where Does SOA Fit In? 10
How Has Technology Been Evolving and Advancing to Solve
These Problems? 11
Where Do We Need to Focus Today? 14
How Do We Express the SOA Value from a Business Perspective? 14
Value of SOA from a Financial Perspective 20
Summary 22

CHAPTER 3 A New Architecture for a New World 23

This Is Not Your Grandfather’s World 23
What Are Business Applications, and What Is Wrong with Them? 24
Summary 32

CHAPTER 4 SOA and Channels 33

Value of Channels 34
Traditional (Non-SOA) Approach to Channels 35
Intermediary Channels 41
SOA Security Framework for Channels 43

v
vi Contents

Architecture for SOA Channels and Their Security Frameworks 45

Value-Added Extensions to an Enterprise Security Framework 45
Channel Governance 46
Summary 47

PART II ARCHITECTURE FRAMEWORK AND METHODOLOGY

CHAPTER 5 Service-Oriented Architecture Enterprise Architecture

Framework and Methodology 51
SOA Enterprise Architecture Framework 51
Overview of the SOA∼EAF Methodology 84
Summary 87

CHAPTER 6 Incorporating Existing Enterprise Architecture Documents and

Artifacts into the SOA∼EAF 89
Relationship of the SOA Enterprise Architecture Framework to
Other EA Frameworks 89
Value of Mapped EA Artifacts 91
Incorporating Zachman Framework Artifacts into the SOA∼EAF 92
General Approach for Integrating and Leveraging EA Artifacts
into the SOA∼EAF 99
Summary 100

PART III THE SOA∼EAF METHODOLOGY PROCESSES AND

CONSIDERATIONS

CHAPTER 7 Dealing with Purchased or Leased Business Applications 103

A Future Vision of Vendor Participation in SOA 104
Adopting SOA Partnerships with Vendors Supplying Leased or
Purchased Business Applications 108
Special Considerations when Business Applications Are Hosted
or Located in Multiple Data Centers 113
Performance Techniques for SOA 115
Summary 118

CHAPTER 8 Transforming Governance to Support SOA 119

Enterprise SOA Portfolio Plan and the Release Approach to
Application Delivery 119
Managing the Impact on Architecture Resources 128
Contents vii

Five Levels of SOA Governance 129

Summary 173

CHAPTER 9 SOA System Development Life Cycle 175

Paradigm Shift of IT Development Resources, Processes, and
Practices to Support SOA 176
Phases of the SOA System Development Life Cycle 179
Summary 211

CHAPTER 10 Capacity Planning under SOA 213

Layered Approach to Monitoring and Managing a Distributed
SOA Architecture 213
SOA Initiative Capacity and Performance Assessment Process 215
Proactive Planning for SOA 216
Capacity and Performance Planning for Releases 223
Application-Level Monitoring in Production 225
Summary 226

CHAPTER 11 People Involved in the SOA Process 227

Architecture Resource Requirements for SOA 227
Development Resources 241
Test and Quality Assurance Resources 244
Project Management Resources 246
Initiative Business Resources 247
Release Management Resources 249
Production Readiness Resources 249
Production Support Resources 250
Governance Business Resources 251
Summary 253

CHAPTER 12 Leveraging SOA to Decommission, Replace, or Modernize

Legacy Business Applications 255
SOA Architectural Approach to Legacy Applications 256
Making Legacy Application Recommendations Based on the
Business and Technical Assessments 266
Legacy Application SOA Modernization and Replacement
Solution Example 267
Summary 272
viii Contents

PART IV DEVELOPING YOUR PLAN FOR ACHIEVING

SERVICE-ORIENTED ARCHITECTURE

CHAPTER 13 Implementing an Effective SOA Strategy under a Decentralized

Business or IT Model 275
Business and IT Organization Variations 275
Summary of the Four Variation Quadrants of the Business and
IT Models 280
Summary 282

CHAPTER 14 Assessing the Organization’s SOA Maturity and Developing Your

Company’s SOA Business Strategy and Roadmap 283
What Is the SOA Business Strategy and Roadmap? 284
Framework for Assessing Maturity 285
Piloting an SOA Initiative to Shake Out and Evaluate the Model 296
Structure of the SOA Business Strategy and Roadmap 299
Summary 301

APPENDIX A SOA∼EAF Documentation Templates 303

APPENDIX B Service Categories and Types 311

APPENDIX C SOA Security Development Framework 331

Glossary 343
About the Author 349
Index 351
 Acknowledgments

I would like to thank Shelley Therrien for grammatically reviewing this book and
helping me put it together. I would also like to thank my wife, Linda, for putting
up with me for months while I focused on writing.

ix
 Introduction

T his book is not about the technical capabilities and technologies required to
build a service-oriented architecture (SOA) application. There have been many
books written on this subject. Some are very good. I highly recommend Michael
Rosen, Boris Lublinsky, Kevin T. Smith, and Marc J. Balcer’s Applied SOA: Service
Oriented Architecture and Design Strategies (Hoboken, NJ: John Wiley & Sons,
2008) for anyone wanting to build technically sound and highly flexible SOA
applications.
This book is about an architectural approach to the cultural, organizational,
and operational changes that must be made across the corporate landscape to suc-
cessfully achieve SOA. Thus this is an enterprise architecture business organization
and management practice book. Both the technical knowledge provided in books
like Applied SOA and the business organization and management practices defined
in this book are critical to realizing the full value of SOA. Adopting one without the
other will limit your SOA success.
I wrote this book because SOA has changed the entire landscape for planning,
designing, implementing, and supporting business “applications.” The success of
SOA requires a major paradigm shift in the fundamental core of how information
technology (IT) organizations and the business in general operate. Adopting SOA as
an architectural strategy will force you to challenge every aspect of your corporate
culture and current practices, which will effect a transformation that impacts every
aspect of your company.
This book will show you how to set up your IT and business organizations and
practices to successfully implement and run your SOA “application” development life
cycle under an architecturally driven SOA paradigm. Its content is based on years of
experience of promoting architecture under a “service-based” philosophy well before
the concept of SOA became popular. SOA has simply validated this philosophy
and brought focus to its virtues to the entire audience of vendors, consultants, IT
departments, and business in general.
I hope that you will find value in the contents of this book. At a minimum, it
will provoke many discussions that will challenge the traditional approaches that
many of you have been using. For those of you who agree with all or most of what
is stated in this book, it will be a useful tool for you to accelerate SOA’s adoption
in your company. The more people within your IT organization, business units,
and vendors/partners who read the book, the more consistent and accelerated that
adoption will be.

xi
xii Introduction

Who Should Read This Book?

Clearly this book targets the chief information officers, chief technology officers, and
chief architects of corporations. These individuals and the positions they hold have
the best possibility of effecting a transformation and paradigm shift in their company.
Rarely does a corporate transformation occur without a top-down commitment of
the executive leadership.
This book also targets the architecture practice within IT. The architects will
have to invest the biggest commitment and do most of the work to implement what
is presented in this book.
Everyone else in IT should read this book as well. They need to understand
how this paradigm shift will affect them and their departments and be committed to
the transformation as well. Having everyone in IT on the same page will certainly
accelerate SOA’s adoption.
This does not mean that business leaders should not read it as well. The business
leaders from the executive level down may not understand (or care to understand)
some of the technical examples described in this book. Nevertheless, the multitude
of value propositions presented will certainly ring true and be readily recognized by
these leaders.
There is also value to guiding business leaders to specific sections of the book.
For those businesspeople participating in governance activities, the governance
chapter (Chapter 8) presents an excellent tool for teaching and educating them as to
the critical role they must play and the new responsibilities they must embrace. For
those involved in specifying or documenting business requirements for IT projects,
Chapter 9, “SOA System Development Life Cycle,” and Chapter 11, “People Involved
in the SOA Process,” are critical. There is value in this book for every leader in the
company. The more these leaders read and understand, the higher the probability
of their acceptance and support.
Finally, any IT partners and vendors you have (such as outsource developers)
or business partners with which your IT people interact (such as an outsource call
center partner that integrates or uses your systems to service your customers) should
read the book as well. An effective and comprehensive internal SOA practice has
tremendous value. Having a synergistic extension of that practice embedded in your
external partner and vendor environments provides even more value.

SOA Adoption Has Been Slow

The concept of SOA has been around for several years now. Technologies that
provide SOA capabilities are also maturing. Yet SOA has not reached the level of
penetration that was expected. The reason its adoption has been slow is not because
of technology restrictions but because of architectural restrictions. These architectural
restrictions in the context of people, policies, and practices have not adapted and
transformed to support the SOA architectural paradigm.
Achieving a successful SOA vision will depend more on how effective you are
with people skills and at establishing these new SOA policies and practices than on
the successful implementation of the technologies themselves. The establishment of
these new SOA policies and procedures will, in effect, create a major paradigm shift
in the culture of the corporation. Don’t get me wrong: A strong technical architecture
Introduction xiii

is key to successfully realizing the value of SOA, but attempting to do so solely from
a technical perspective, without focusing on the policies, procedures, and practices,
will almost certainly fail to achieve all that SOA has to offer.
The absence of this transformation of the practices used in the corporation is
why SOA’s adoption has been slow. It is because successfully implementing SOA is
not simply the implementation of a vendor product or technology. Nor is it the use
of Web services. Successful implementation requires a major paradigm shift in how
the company thinks about, manages, and uses its IT assets.
This adoption failure has been further exasperated by the relatively short-term
focus of corporations. The mentality of corporate culture has evolved to such a point
that anything that cannot be completed, or at least have a major milestone, within
six months is almost impossible to even start. All SOA vendors will “sell” you on
one relatively simple short-term project to begin your SOA process. They sell this
approach not because they necessarily believe it is the best way to be successful at
SOA but because it is the best way to sell their product.
Perhaps a more accurate description of what is described in this book is service-
oriented enterprise architecture. This book applies enterprise architecture practices
and principles to SOA. The goal of enterprise architecture is to maximize utilization
and efficiency of the IT assets and to identify synergistic opportunities and values for
the business. Interestingly, the goal of SOA is to maximize utilization and efficiency
of IT investments through services and to create synergistic opportunities and values
for the business using those services.
The barriers to maximizing the goals of enterprise architecture have traditionally
been the size and age of the legacy application portfolio and the lack of a
more effective model to architect and build business applications. The barriers to
maximizing SOA’s goals have been the lack of people, processes, and practices
defined from an enterprise architecture perspective to support the SOA model. This
book brings enterprise architecture practices and principles to the SOA model. It
defines all the things architects usually define (governance, system development
life cycle [SDLC], frameworks, models, etc.) but defines them to specifically support
and maximize SOA.
Throughout my years of developing and evolving a service-based architecture
approach to business systems, I had to rely on a lot of experience-based intuition and
trial and error to set up the practice. There was nothing out there that documented
how to do it. Even today there is still very little, which is why I wrote this book. I
am providing you with my insight and knowledge as it relates to over 25 years of
IT leadership experience and over 15 years of driving a service-based philosophy
for business application design. This book was written to help others learn from
my experience and avoid having to figure it out on their own. Even if you do not
embrace the contents of this book 100 percent, I am confident that you will get
significant value out of the experiences and examples I provide.

The Business Is Already Involved in Architecture;

It Just Does Not Know It
The two largest reasons for adopting and “institutionalizing” an architecture practice
are the rapid expansions of technologies in terms of viable technical alternatives
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 POLITICS
(Annals of The Bend)

N
ixie! I ain't did nothin', but all de same I'm feelin' like a mut,
see!”
Chucky was displeased with some chapter in his recent
past. I could tell as much by the shifty, deprecatory way in which he
twiddled and fiddled with his beer-stein.
“This is d' way it all happens,” exclaimed Chucky. “Over be
Washin'ton Square there's an old soak, an' he's out to go into pol'tics
—wants to hold office; Congress, I t'inks, is what this gezeybo is
after. Anyhow he's nutty to hold office.
“Of course, I figgers that a guy who wants to hold office is a
sucker; for meself, I'd sooner hold a baby. Still, when some such
duck comes chasin' into pol'tics, I'm out for his dough like all d' rest
of d' gang.
“So I goes an' gets nex' to this mucker an' jollies his game. I tells
him all he's got to do is to fix his lamps on d' perch that pleases him,
blow in his stuff an' me push'll toin loose, an' we'll win out d' whole
box of tricks in a walk, see!
“That's all right; d' Washin'ton Square duck is of d' same views.
An' some of it ain't no foolish talk at that. I'm dead strong wit' d'
Dagoes, an' d' push about d' Bend, an' me old chum—if he starts—is
goin' to get a run for his money.
“It ain t this, however, what wilts me d' way you sees to-night. It's
that I'm 'shamed, see! In d' foist place, I'm bashful. That's straight
stuff; I'm so bashful that if I'm in some other geezer's joint—par-
tic'ler if he's a high roller an' t'rowin' on social lugs, like this
Washin'ton Square party—I feels like creep-in' under d' door mat.
 “D' other night this can'date for office says, says he, 'Chucky, I'm
goin to begin my money-boinin' be givin' a dinner over be me house,
an' youse are in it, see! in it wit' bot' feet.*
“'Be I comin' to chew at your joint?' I asts; 'is that d' bright idee?'
“'That's d' stuff,' he says; 'youse are comin' to eat wit' me an' me
friends. An' you can gamble your socks me friends is a flossy bunch
at that.'
“I says I'll assemble wit' 'em.
“Nit, I ain't stuck on d' play. I'd sooner eat be meself. But if I'm
goin' to catch up wit' his Whiskers an' sep'rate him from some of d'
long green, I've got to stay dost to his game, see!
“It's at d' table me troubles begins. I does d' social double-shuffle
in d' hall all right. D' crush parts to let me t'rough, an' I woiks me
way up to me can'date—who, of course, is d' main hobo, bein' he's
d' architect of d' blowout—an' gives him d' joyful mit; what you calls
d' glad hand.
“'Glad to see youse, Chucky,' says d' old mark. 'Tummas, steer
Chucky to his stool be d' table.'
“It's at d' table I'm rattled, wit' all d' glasses an' dishes an 'd' lights
overhead. But I'm cooney all d' same. I ain't onto d' graft meself, but
I puts it up on d' quiet I'll pick out some student who knows d' ropes
an' string me bets wit' his.
“As I sets there, I flashes me lamps along d' line, an' sort o' stacks
up d' blokes, for to pick out d' fly guys from d' lobsters, see!
“Over'cross'd table I lights on an old stiff who looks like he could
teach d' game. T'inks I to meself, 'There's a mut who's been t'rough
d' mill many a time an' oft. All I got to do now is to pipe his play an'
never let him out o' me sight. If I follows his smoke, I'll finish in d'
front somewheres, an' none of these mugs 'll tumble to me
ignorance.'
“Say! on d' level! there was no flies on that for a scheme, was
there? An' it would have been all right, me system would; only this
old galoot I goes nex' to don't have no more sense than me. Why!
he was d' ass of d' evening! d' prize pig of d' play, he was! Let me
tell youse.
“D' foist move, he spreads a little table clot' across his legs. I ain't
missin' no tricks, so I gets me hooks on me own little table clot' and
spreads it over me legs also.
“'This is good enough for a dog, I t'inks, an' easy money! Be
keepin' me eye on Mr. Goodplayer over there I can do this stunt all
right.'
“An' so I does. I never lets him lose me onct.
“'How be youse makin' it, Chucky?' shouts me can'date from up be
d' end of d' room.
“'Out o' sight!' I says. 'I'm winner from d' jump; I'm on velvet.'
“'Play ball!' me can'date shouts back to encourage me, I suppose
because he's dead on I ain't no Foxy Quiller at d' racket we're at;
'play ball, Chucky, an' don't let 'em fan youse out. When you can't
bat d' ball, bunt it,' says me can'date.
“Of course gettin 'd' gay face that way from d' boss gives me
confidence, an' as a result it ain't two seconts before I'm all but
caught off me base. It's in d' soup innin's an 'd' flunk slams down d'
consomme in a tea cup. It's a new one on me for fair! I don't at d'
time have me lamps on d' mark 'cross d' way, who I'm understudyin',
bein' busy, as I says, slingin 'd' bit of guff I tells of wit' me can'date.
An' bein' off me guard, I takes d' soup for tea or some such dope,
an' is layin' out to sugar it.
“'Stan' your hand!' says a dub who's organised be me right elbow,
an' who's feedin' his face wit' both mits; 'set a brake!' he says.
'That's soup. Did youse t'ink it was booze?'
“After that I fastens to d' old skate across d' table to note where
he's at wit' his game. He's doin' his toin on d' consomme wit' a
spoon, so I gets a spoon in me hooks, goes to mixin' it up wit 'd'
soup as fast as ever, an' follows him out.
“An' say! I'm feelin' dead grateful to this snoozer, see! He was d'
ugliest mug I ever meets, at that. Say! he was d' limit for looks, an'
don't youse doubt it. As I sizes him up I was t'inking to meself, what
a wonder he is! Honest! if I was a lion an' that old party comes into
me cage, do youse know what I'd do? Nit; you don't. Well, I'll tip it
to youse straight. If any such lookin' monster showed up in me cage,
if d' door was open, I'd get out. That's on d' square, I'd simply give
him d' cage an' go an' board in d' woods. An' if d' door was locked
an' I couldn't get out, I'd t'row a fit from d' scare. Oh! he was a
dream! He's one of them t'ings a mark sees after he's been hittin' it
up wit 'd' lush for a mont'.
“'But simply because he looks like a murderer,' I reflects, 'that's no
reason why he ain't wise. He knows his way t'rough this dinner like a
p'liceman does his beat, an' I'll go wit' him.'
“It's a go! When he plays a fork, I plays a fork; when he boards a
shave, I'm only a neck behint him. When he shifts his brush an'
tucks his little table clot' over his t'ree-sheet, I'm wit' him. I plays
nex' to him from soda to hock.
“An' every secont I'm gettin' more confidence in this gezebo, an'
more an' more stuck on meself. On d' dead! I was farmer enough to
t'ink I'd t'ank him for bein' me guide before I shook d' push an' quit.
Say! he'd be a nice old dub for me to be t'ankin 'd' way it toins out. I
was a good t'ing to follow him, I don't t'ink.
“If I was onto it early that me old friend across d' table had w'eels
an' was wrong in his cocoa, I wouldn't have felt so bad, see! But I'd
been playin' him to win, an' followin' his lead for two hours. An' I
was so sure I was trottin' in front, that all d' time I was jollyin'
meself, an' pattin' meself on d' back, an' tellin' meself I was a corker
to be gettin' an even run wit 'd' 400 d' way I was, d' foist time I
enter s'ciety. An' of course, lettin' me nut swell that way makes it all
d' harder when I gets d' jolt.
“It's at d' finish. I'd gone down d' line wit' this sucker, when one of
them waiter touts, who's cappin' d' play for d' kitchen, shoves a bowl
of water in front of him. Now, what do youse t'ink he does? Drink it?
Nit; that's what he ought to have done. I'm Dutch if he don't up an'
sink his hooks in it. An' then he swabs off his mits wit' d' little table
clot'. Say! an' to t'ink I'd been takin' his steer t'rough d' whole
racket! It makes me tired to tell it!
“'W'at th' 'ell!' I says to meself; 'I've been on a dead one from d'
start. This stiff is a bigger mut than I be.'
“It let me out. Me heart was broke, an' I ain't had d' gall to hunt
up me can'date since. Nit; I don't stay to say no 'good-byes.' I'm too
bashful, as I tells you at d' beginnin'. As it is, I cops a sneak on d'
door, side-steps d' outfit, an' screws me nut. The can'date sees me
oozin' out, however, an' sends a chaser after me in d' shape of one
of his flunks. He wants me to come back. He says me can'date
wants to present me to his friends. I couldn't stan' for it d' way I felt,
an' as d' flunk shows fight an' is goin' to take me back be force, I
soaks him one an' comes away. On d' dead! I feels as'shamed of d'
entire racket as if some sucker had pushed in me face.”
 ESSLEIN GAMES

F
or generations the Essleins have been fanciers of game
chickens. The name “Esslein” for a century and a half has had
honourable place among Virginians. In his day, they, the
Essleins, were as well known as Thomas Jefferson. As this is written
they have equal Old Dominion fame with either the Conways, the
Fairfaxes, the McCarthys or the Lees. And all because of the purity
and staunch worth of the “Esslein Games.”
It was the broad Esslein boast that no man had chickens of such
feather or strain. And this was accepted popularly as truth. The
Essleins never loaned, sold, nor gave away egg or chicken. No one
could produce the counterpart of the Esslein chickens for looks or
warlike heart; no one ever won a main from the Essleins. So at last
it was agreed generally, that no one save the Essleins did have the
“Esslein Games;” and this belief went unchallenged while years
added themselves to years.
But there came a day when a certain one named Smith, who
dwelt in the region round about the Essleins, and who also had note
for his fighting cocks, whispered to a neighbour that he, as well as
the Essleins, had the “Esslein Games.” The whisper spread into talk,
and the talk into general clamour; everywhere one heard that the
long monopoly was broken, and that Smith had the “Esslein Games.”
This startling story had half confirmation by visitors to the Smith
walks. Undoubtedly Smith had chickens, feather for feather, twins of
the famous Essleins. That much at least was true. The rest of the
question might have evidence pro or con some day, should Smith
and the Essleins make a main.
But this great day seemed slow, uncertain of approach. Smith
would not divulge the genesis of his fowls, nor tell how he came to
be possessed of the Esslein chickens. Smith confined himself to the
bluff claim:
“I've got 'em, and there they be.”
Beyond this Smith wouldn't go. On' their parts, the Essleins, at
first maintained themselves in silent dignity. They said nothing;
treating the Smith claim as beneath contempt.
As man after man, however, went over to the Smith side, the
Essleins so far unbent from their pose of tongue-tied hauteur as to
call Smith “a liar!”
Still this failed of full effect; the talk went on, the subject was in
mighty dispute, and the Essleins at last, to settle discussion, defied
Smith to a main.
But Smith refused to fight his chickens against the Essleins. Smith
said it was conscience, but failed to go into details. This was
damaging. Meanwhile, however, as Smith challenged the world of
fighting cocks, and, moreover, won every match he ever made, and
barred only the Essleins in his campaigning, there arose, in spite of
his steady objection to fighting the Essleins, many who believed
Smith and stood forth for it that Smith did have the far-famed
“Esslein Games.” It is to the credit of the Essleins that they did all
that was in their power to bring Smith and his chickens to the
battlefield. They offered him every inducement known in chicken
war, and tendered him a duel for his cocks to be fought for anything
from love to money.
Firm to the last, Smith wouldn't have it; and so, discouraged, the
Essleins, failing action, nailed as it were their gauntlet to Smith's
hen-coop door, and thus the business stood for months.
It came about one day that a stranger from Baltimore accepted
Smith's standing challenge to fight anybody save the Essleins. The
stranger proposed and made a match with Smith to fight him nine
battles, $500 on each couple and $2,500 on the general main. And
then the news went 'round.
There was high excitement in chicken circles. The day came and
the sides of the pit were crowded. Smith was in his corner with his
handler, getting the first of his champions ready for the struggle. As
Smith was holding the chicken for the handler to fasten on the gaffs
—drop-socket, they were, and keen as little scimetars—he chanced
to glance across the pit.
There stood John, chief of the Essleins.
Smith saw it in a moment; he had been trapped. But it was too
late. The match was made and the money was up; there was no
chance to retrace, even if Smith had wanted. As a fact to his glory,
however, he had no desire so to do.
“We're up against the Essleins, Bill,” Smith said to his trainer; “and
it's all right. I didn't want to make a match with them, because I got
their chickens queer. And if I'd fought them and won, I'd felt like I'd
got their money queer; and that I couldn't stand. But this is
different. We'll fight the Essleins now they're here, and 'if they can
win over me, they're welcome.”
Then the main began. The first battle was short, sharp, deadly;
and glorious for Smith. The Esslein chicken got a stab in the heart
the first buckle. Smith smiled as his handler pulled his chicken's gaff
out of its dead victim, and set it free.
The Smith entries won the second and third battle. Triumph rode
on the glance of Smith, while the Esslein brows were bleak and dark.
“Smith's got the 'Esslein Games,' sure!” was whispered about the
pit.
In the fourth and fifth battles the tide ran the other way, the
Esslein chickens killing their rivals. Each battle, for that matter, had
so far been to the death.
The sixth battle went to Smith and the seventh to the Essleins.
Thus it stood four for Smith to three for the Essleins, just before the
eighth battle. It didn't look as if Smith could lose.
It was at this juncture so hopeful for the coops of Smith, that
Smith did a foolish thing. Yielding to the appeals of his trainer, Smith
let that worthy man put up a chicken of his own to face the Esslein
entry for the eighth duel. It was a gorgeous shawl-neck that Smith's
trainer produced; eye bright as a diamond, and beak like some
arrow-head of jet. His legs looked as strong as a hod-carrier's. It
was a horse to a hen, so everybody said, that the Esslein chicken,—
which was but a small, indifferent bird,—would lose its life, the
battle, and the main at one and the same time.
Popular conjecture was wrong, as popular conjecture often is. The
Esslein chicken locked both gaffs through the shawl-neck's brain in
the second buckle.
“That teaches me a lesson,” said Smith. “Hereafter should an
angel come down from heaven and beg me to let him fight a chicken
in a main of mine, I'll turn him down!”
It was the ninth battle and the score stood four for Smith and four
for the Essleins. As the slim gaffs, grey and cruelly sharp, were being
placed on the feathered gladiators for the last deadly joust, Smith
called across the pit to John Esslein:
“Esslein,” he said, “no matter how this last battle may fall, I reckon
I've convinced you and everybody looking on, that, just as I said,
I've got the 'Esslein Games.' To show you that I know I have, and
give you a chance for revenge as well, I'll make this last fight for
$10,000 a cock. The main so far has been an even break, and
neither of us has won or lost. The last battle decides the tie and
wins or loses me $3,000. To make it interesting, I'll raise the risk
both ways, if you're willing, just $7,000, and call the bundle ten.
And,” concluded Smith, as he glanced around the pit, “there isn't a
sport here but will believe in his heart, when I, a poor man, offer to
make this last battle one for $20,000, that I know that, even if I'm
against, I'm at least behind an 'Esslein Game.'”
“Make it for $10,000 a cock, then!” said John Esslein bitterly.
“Whether I win or lose main and money too, I've already lost much
more than both to-day.”
Then the fight began. The chickens were big and strong and quick
and as dauntlessly savage as ospreys. And feather and size, eye,
and beak and leg, they were the absolute counterparts of each
other.
 For ten minutes the battle raged. Either the spurred fencers had
more of luck or more of caution than the others. Buckle after buckle
occurred, and after ten minutes' fighting the two enemies still faced
each other with angry, bead-like eyes, and without so much as a
drop of blood spilled.

They fronted each other balefully while one might count seven.
Their beaks travelled up and down as evenly as if moved by the
same impulse. Then they clashed together.
 This time,-as they drew apart, Smith's chicken fell upon its side,
its right leg cut and broken well up toward the hip, with the bone
pushing upward and outward through the slash of the gaff.
“Get your chicken and wring its neck, Smith,” said someone. “It's
all over!”
“Let them fight!” responded Smith. “It's not 'all over!' That chicken
of Esslein's has a long row to hoe to kill that bird of mine.”
Hardly were the words uttered when a strange chance befell.
Smith's prostrate cripple reached up as its foe approached, seized it
with its beak, and struggled to its one good foot. In the buckle that
followed, the one gaff by some sleight of the cripple slashed the
Esslein chicken over the eyes and blinded it. The muscles closed
down and covered the eyes. Otherwise the Esslein cock was unhurt.
Then began a long, fierce, yet feeble fight. One chicken couldn't
stand and the other couldn't see. The Smith chicken would lie on its
side and watch its rival with eyes blazing hate, while the Esslein
chicken, blind as a bat, would grope for him. When he came within
reach of Smith's chicken, that indomitable bird would seize him with
his bill; there would be some weak, aimless clashing, and again
they'd be separated, the blind one to grope, the cripple to lie and
wait.
The war limped on in this fashion for almost two hours. But the
end came. As the Esslein chicken strayed blindly within reach, its
enemy got a strong, sudden grip, and in the collision that was the
sequel, the Esslein chicken had its head half slashed from its body. It
staggered a step with blood spurting, tottered and fell dead.
Smith said never a word, but from first to last his face had been
cold and grimly indifferent. His heart was fire, but no one could see
it in his face. Evidently the man was as clean-strain as his chickens.
That's all there is to the story. What became of the victor with the
broken leg? Smith looked him over, decided it was “no use,” and
wrung his dauntless neck. The great main was over. Smith had won,
everybody knew, as Smith went home that night, that he wras
$10,000 better off, and that fast and sure, beyond denial or doubt,
Smith had the “Esslein Games.”
 THE PAINFUL ERROR

T
his is a tale of school life. Fred Avery, Charles Roy and
Benjamin Clayton are scholars in the same school. The name
of this seminary is withheld by particular request. Suffice it
that all three of these youths come and go and have their bright
young beings within the neighbourhood of Newark. The age of each
is thirteen years. Thirteen is a sinister number. They are all jocund,
merry-hearted boys, and put in many hours each day thinking up a
good time.
One day during the noon hour the school building was all but
deserted. Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton, however,
were there. They had formed plans for their entertainment which
demanded the desertion of the school building as chronicled. The
coast being fairly clear, the conspiring three proceeded to one of the
upper recitation rooms of the building. This room did not appertain
to the particular school favoured by the attendance of Fred Avery,
Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton as scholars. This, however, only
added zest to the adventure.
The room to which our heroes repaired was the recitation
stamping ground of a high school class in physiology. The better to
know anatomy, the class was furnished with the skeleton of some
dead gentleman, all nicely hung and arranged with wires so as to
look as much like former days as possible. During class hours the
framework of the dead person stood in a corner of the room, and
the students learned things from it that were useful to know. When
off duty it reposed in a box.
Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton had heard of
deceased. Their purpose this noon was to call on him. They gained
entrance to the room by the burglarious method of picking the lock.
Once within they took the skeleton from its box home and stood it in
the window where the public might revel in the spectacle. To take off
any grimness of effect they fixed a cob pipe in its bony jaws and
clothed the skull in a bad hat, pulled much over the left eye, the
whole conferring upon the remains a highly gala, joyous air indeed.
Then Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Benjamin Clayton withdrew
from the scene.
The skeleton in the window was very popular. Countless folk had
assembled to gaze upon it at the end of the first ten minutes, and
armies were on their way.
The principal of the school as he came from lunch saw it and was
much vexed. He put the skeleton back in its box, and the hydra-
headed public slowly dispersed.
Fred Avery, Charles Roy and Benjamin Clayton secretly gloated
over the transaction in detail and entirety. But the principal began to
make inquiries; the avenger was on the track of the criminal three.
Some big girls had witnessed the felonious entrance of the guilty
ones into the den of the skeleton. The big girls imparted their
knowledge to the principal, hunting these felons of the school. But
the big girls slipped a cog on one important point. They did not
know the recreant Benjamin Clayton. After arguing it all over they
decided that “the third boy” was a very innocent young person
named Albert Weed, and so gave in the names of the guerillas as:
“Charles Roy, Fred Avery and Albert Weed!” That afternoon the
indignant principal demanded that Fred Avery, Charles Roy and
Albert Weed attend him to the study. They were there charged with
the atrocity of the skeleton in the window. Charles Roy and Fred
Avery confessed and asked for mercy. Albert Weed denied having
art, part or lot in the outrage. The principal was much shocked at his
prompt depravity in trying to lie himself clear. The principal, in order
to be exactly just, and evenly fair, craved to know of Charles Roy
and Fred Avery:
“Was Albert Weed with you?”
“Please, sir, we would rather be excused from answering,” they
said, hanging down their heads.
 Then the principal knew that Albert Weed was guilty. Fred Avery
and Charles Roy were forgiven, and were complimented on their
straightforward, manly course in refusing to tell a lie to shield
themselves.
“As for you, Albert,” observed the principal, as he seized Albert
Weed by the top of his head, “as for you, Albert, I do not punish you
for being roguish with the skeleton, but for telling me a lie.”

The principal thereupon lambasted the daylights out of Albert

Weed.
 THE RAT
(Annals of The Bend)

B
e d' cops at d' Central office fly?” Chucky buried his face in his
tankard in a polite effort to hide his contempt for the question.
“Be dey fly! Say! make no mistake! d' Central Office mugs is
as soon a set of geezers as ever looked over d' hill. Dey're d' swiftest
ever. On d' level! I t'ink t'ree out of every four of them gezebos could
loin to play d' pianny in one lesson.
“Just to put youse onto how quick dey be, an' to give you some
idee of their curves, let me tell you what dey does to Billy d' Rat.
“Youse never chases up on d' Rat? Nit! Well, Cully, you don't miss
much. Yes, d' Rat's a crook all right. He's a nipper, but a dead queer
one, see! He always woiks alone, an' his lay is diamonds.
“'I don't want no pals or stalls in mine,” says d' Rat. “I can toin all
needful tricks be me lonesome. Stalls is a give-away, see! Let some
sucker holler, an' let one of your mob get pinched, an' what then?
Why, about d' time he's stood up an' given d' secont degree be Mc-
Clusky, he coughs. That's it! he squeals, an' d' nex' dash out o' d'
box youse don't get a t'ing but d' collar. Nine out o' ten of d' good
people doin' time to-day, was t'rown into soak be some pal knockin'.
I passes all that up! I goes it alone! If I nips a rock it's mine; I don't
split out no bits for no snoozer, see! I'm d' entire woiks, an' if I
stumbles an' falls be d' wayside, it's me's to blame. Which last makes
it easier to stan' for.'
“That's d' way d' Rat lays out d' ground for me one day,” continued
Chucky, “an' he ain't slingin' no guff at that. It's d' way he always
woiked.
“But to skin back to d' Central Office cops an' how flydey be: One
of d' Rat's favourite stunts is dampin' a diamond. What's that?
Youse'll catch on as me tale unfolds, as d' nov'lists puts it.
“Here's how d' Rat would graft. Foist he'd rub up his two lamps
wit' pepper till dey looks red an', out of line. When he'd got t'rough
doin' d' pepper act to 'em, d' Rat's peeps, for fair! would do to
understudy two fried eggs.
“Then d' Rat would pull on a w'ite wig, like he's some old stuff; an'
wit' that an' some black goggles over his peeps, his own Rag
wouldn't have known him. To t'row 'em down for sure, d' Rat would
wear a cork-sole shoe,—one of these 6-inch soles,—like he's got a
game trilby. Then when he's all made up in black togs, d' Rat is
ready.
“Bein' organised, d' Rat hobbles into a cab an' drives to a diamond
shop. D' racket is this: Of course it takes a bit of dough, but that's
no drawback, for d' Rat is always on velvet an' dead strong. As I say,
d' play is this: D' Rat being well dressed an' fitted up wit' his cork-
soles, his goggles an' his wig, comes hobblin' into d' diamond joint
an' gives d' impression he's some rich old mark who ain't got a t'ing
but money, an' that he's out to boin a small bundle be way of
matchin' a spark which he has wit' him in his mit. D' Rat fills d'
diamond man up wit' a yarn, how he's goin' to saw a brace of ear-
rings off on his daughter an' needs d' secont rock, see! Of course it's
a dead case of string. D' Rat ain't got no kid, an' would be d' last
bloke to go festoonin' her wit' diamonds if he had.
“Naturally, d' mut who owns d' store is out an' eager to do
business. D' Rat won't let d' diamond man do d' matchin'; not on
your life! he's goin' to mate them sparks himself. So he gives d' stiff
wit' d' store d' tip to spread a handful of stones, say about d' size of
d' one he's holdin' in his hooks—which mebby is a 2-carat—on some
black velvet for him to pick from. D' diamond party ain't lookin' for
no t'row down from an old sore-eyed, cork-sole hobo like d' Rat, so
he lays out a sprinklin' of stones. D' Rat, who all this time is starring
his bum lamps, an' tellin' how bad an' weak dey be, an' how he can
hardly see, gets his map down dost to d' lay-out of sparks, so as he
can get onto em an' make d' match.
 “It's now d' touch comes in. When d' Rat's got his smeller right
among d' diamonds, he sticks out his tongue, quick like a toad for a
honey-bee, an' nails a gem. That's what dey calls 'dampin' a
diamond.' Yes, mebby if there's so many of 'em laid out, he t'inks d'
mark behint d' show case will stan' for it wit'out missin' 'em, d' Rat
gets two. Then d' Rat goes on jollyin' an' chinnin' wit' d' sparks in his
face; an' mebby for a finish an' to put a cover on d' play, he buys
one an' screws his nut.
“Wit' his cab, as I says, d' Rat is miles away, an' has time to shed
his wig an' goggles an' cork-sole before d' guy wit' d' diamonds
tumbles to it he's been done. That's how d' Rat gets in his woik.
Now I'll tell youse how d' Central Office people t'run d' harpoon into
him.
“One day d' Rat makes a play an' gets two butes. He tucks 'em
away in back of his teet', an' is just raisin' his nut to say somethin',
when d' store duck grabs him an' raises a roar. Two or t'ree cloiks an'
a cop off d' street comes sprintin' up, an' away goes d' Rat to d'
coop.
“Wit 'd' foist yell of d' sucker who makes d' front for d' store—naw,
he ain't d' owner, he's one of d' cloiks—d' Rat goes clean outside of
d' sparks at a gulp; swallows 'em; that's what he does. There bein'
no diamond toined up, an' no one at headquarters bein' onto him—
for he's always laid low an' kept out of sight of d' p'lice—d' Rat
makes sure dey'll have to t'run him loose.
“But d' boss cop is pretty cooney. He figgers it all out, how d' Rat's
a crook, an' how he's eat d' diamonds, just as I says. So he cons d'
Rat an' t'rows a dream into him. He tells him there'll be no trouble,
but he'll have to keep him for an hour or two until his 'sooperior
off'cer,' as he calls him, gets there. He's d' main squeeze, this p'lice
dub dey're waitin' for, an' as soon as he shows up an' goes over d'
play, d' Rat can screw out.
“That's d' sort of song an' dance d' high cop gives d' Rat; an' say!
I'm a lobster if d' Rat don't fall to it, at that. On d' dead! this p'lice
duck is so smooth an' flossy d' Rat believes him.
 “Just for appearances d' Rat registers a big kick; an' then—for dey
don't lock him up at all—he plants himself in a easy chair to do a
toin of wait. D' Rat couldn't have broke an' run for it, even if he'd
took d' scare, for d' cops is all over d' place. But he ain't lookin' for d'
woist of it nohow. He t'inks it's all as d' boss cop has told him; he'll
wait there an hour or two for d' main guy an' then dey'll cut him
free.
“After a half hour d' boss cop says: 'It's no use you bein' hungry,
me frien', an' as I'm goin' to chew, come wit' me an' feed your face.
D' treat's on me, anyhow, bein' obliged to detain a respect'ble old
mucker like you. So come along.'
“Wit' that d' Rat goes along wit 'd' boss cop, an' all d' time he's
t'inkin' what a Stoughton bottle d' cop is.
“It's nex' door, d' chop-house is. D' cop an 'd' Rat sets down an'
breasts up to d' table. Dey gives d' orders all right, all right. But say!
d' grub never gets to 'em. D' nex' move after d' orders, d' Rat, who's
got a t'irst on from d' worry of bein' lagged, takes a drink out of a
glass.
“'I'm poisoned!' yells d' Rat as he slams down d' tumbler;
'somebody's doped me!' an' wit' that d' Rat toins in, t'rows a fit, an'
is seasick to d' limit.
“That's what that boss cop does. He sends over an' doctors a
glass while d' Rat is settin' in his office waitin', an' then gives him a
bluff about chewin' an' steers d' Rat ag'inst it. Say! it was a dandy
play. D' dope or whatever it was, toins me poor friend d' Rat inside
out, like an old woman's pocket.
“An' them sparks is recovered.
“Yes, d' Rat does a stretch. As d' judge sentences him, d' Rat gives
d' cop who downs him his mit. 'You're a wonder,' says d' Rat to d'
cop; 'there's no flies baskin' in d' sun on you. When I reflects on d'
way you sneaks d' chaser after them sparks, an' lands 'em, I'm
bound to say d' Central Office mugs are onto their job.'”
 CHEYENNE BILL
(Wolfville)

C
heyenne Bill is out of luck. Ordinarily his vagaries are not
regarded in Wolfville. His occasional appearance in its single
street in a voluntary of nice feats of horsemanship, coupled
with an exhibition of pistol shooting, in which old tomato cans and
passé beer bottles perform as targets, has hitherto excited no more
baleful sentiment in the Wolfville bosom than disgust.
“Shootin' up the town a whole lot!” is the name for this engaging
pastime, as given by Cheyenne Bill, and up to date the exercise has
passed unchallenged.
But to-day it is different. Camps like individuals have moods, now
light, now dark; and so it is with Wolfville. At this time Wolfville is
experiencing a wave of virtue. This may have come spontaneously
from those seeds of order which, after all, dwell sturdily in the
Wolfville breast. It may have been excited by the presence of a pale
party of Eastern tourists, just now abiding at the O. K. Hotel;
persons whom the rather sanguine sentiment of Wolfville credits
with meditating an investment of treasure in her rocks and rills. But
whatever the reason, Wolfville virtue is aroused; a condition of the
public mind which makes it a bad day for Cheyenne Bill.
The angry sun smites hotly in the deserted causeway of Wolfville.
The public is within doors. The Red Light Saloon is thriving mightily.
Those games which generally engross public thought are drowsy
enough; but the counter whereat the citizen of Wolfville gathers with
his peers in absorption of the incautious compounds of the place, is
fairly sloppy from excess of trade. Notwithstanding the torrid heat
this need not sound strangely; Wolfville leaning is strongly
homoeopathic. “Similia similibus curantur,” says Wolfville; and when
it is blazing hot, drinks whiskey.
But to-day there is further reason for this consumption. Wolfville is
excited, and this provokes a thirst. Cheyenne Bill, rendering himself
prisoner to Jack Moore, rescue or no rescue, has by order of that
sagacious body been conveyed by his captor before the vigilance
committee, and is about to be tried for his life.
What was Cheyenne Bill's immediate crime? Certainly not a grave
one. Ten days before it would have hardly earned a comment. But
now in its spasm of virtue, and sensitive in its memories of the
erratic courses of Cheyenne Bill aforetime, Wolfville has grimly taken
possession of that volatile gentleman for punishment. He has killed a
Chinaman. Here is the story:
“Yere comes that prairie dog, Cheyenne Bill, all spraddled out,”
says Dave Tutt.
Dave Tutt is peering from the window of the Red Light, to which
lattice he has been carried by the noise of hoofs. There is a sense of
injury disclosed in Dave Tutt's tone, born of the awakened virtue of
Wolfville.
“It looks like this camp never can assoome no airs,” remarks
Cherokee Hall in a distempered way, “but this yere miser'ble
Cheyenne comes chargin' up to queer it.”
 As he speaks, that offending personage, unconscious of the great
change in Wolf ville morals, sweeps up the street, expressing
gladsome and ecstatic whoops, and whirling his pistol on his
forefinger like a thing of light. One of the tourists stands in the door
of the hotel smoking a pipe in short, brief puffs of astonishment, and
reviews the amazing performance. Cheyenne Bill at once and
abruptly halts. Gazing for a disgruntled moment on the man from
the East, he takes the pipe from its owner's amazed mouth and
places it in his own “smokin' of pipes,” he vouchsafes in
condemnatory explanation, “is onelegant an' degradin'; an' don't you
do it no more in my presence. I'm mighty sensitive that a-way about
pipes, an' I don't aim to tolerate 'em none whatever.”
 This solution of his motives seems satisfactory to Cheyenne Bill.
He sits puffing and gazing at the tourist, while the latter stands
dumbly staring, with a morsel of the ravished meerschaum still
between his lips.
What further might have followed in the way of oratory or overt
acts cannot be stated, for the thoughts of the guileless Cheyenne
suddenly receive a new direction. A Chinaman, voluminously robed,
emerges from the New York store, whither he has been drawn by
dint of soap.
“Whatever is this Mongol doin' in camp, I'd like for to know?”
inquires Cheyenne Bill disdainfully. “I shore leaves orders when I'm
yere last, for the immejit removal of all sech. I wouldn't mind it, but
with strangers visitin' Wolf ville this a-way, it plumb mortifies me to
death.”
“Oh well!” he continues in tones of weary, bitter reflection, “I'm
the only public-sperited gent in this yere outfit, so all reforms falls
nacheral to me. Still, I plays my hand! I'm simply a pore, lonely
white, but jest the same, I makes an example of this speciment of a
sudsmonger to let 'em know whatever a white man is, anyhow.”
Then comes the short, emphatic utterance of a six-shooter. A puff
of smoke lifts and vanishes in the hot air, and the next census will be
short one Asiatic.
In a moment arrives a brief order from Enright, the chief of the
vigilance committee, to Jack Moore. The last-named official proffers
a Winchester and a request to surrender simultaneously, and
Cheyenne Bill, realizing fate, at once accedes.
“Of course, gents,” says Enright, apologetically, as he convenes
the committee in the Red Light bar; “I don't say this Cheyenne is
held for beefin' the Chinaman sole an' alone. The fact is, he's been
havin' a mighty sight too gay a time of late, an' so I thinks it's a
good, safe play, bein' as it's a hot day an' we has the time, to sorter
call the committee together an' ask its views, whether we better
hang this yere Cheyenne yet or not?”
 “Mr. Pres'dent,” responds Dave Tutt, “if I'm in order, an' to get the
feelin' of the meetin' to flowin' smooth, I moves we takes this
Cheyenne an' proceeds with his immolation. I ain't basin' it on
nothin' in partic'lar, but lettin' her slide as fulfillin' a long-felt want.”
“Do I note any remarks?” asks Enright. “If not, I takes Mr. Tutt's
very excellent motion as the census of this meetin', an' it's hang she
is.”
“Not intendin' of no interruption,” remarks Texas Thompson, “I
wants to say this: I'm a quiet gent my-se'f, an' nacheral aims to keep
Wolfville a quiet place likewise. For which-all I shorely favours a-
hangin' of Cheyenne. He's given us a heap of trouble. Like Tutt I
don't make no p'int on the Chinaman; we spares the Chink too easy.
But this Cheyenne is allers a-ridin', an' a-yellin', an' a-shootin' up this
camp till I'm plumb tired out. So I says let's hang him, an' su'gests
as a eligible, as well as usual nook tharfore, the windmill back of the
dance hall.”
“Yes,” says Enright, “the windmill is, as experience has showed,
amply upholstered for sech plays; an' as delays is aggravatin', the
committee might as well go wanderin' over now, an' get this yere
ceremony off its mind.”
“See yere, Mr. Pres'dent!” interrupts Cheyenne Bill in tones of one
ill-used, “what for a deal is this I rises to ask?”
“You can gamble this is a squar' game,” replies Enright confidently.
“You're entitled to your say when the committee is done. Jest figure
out what kyards you needs, an' we deals to you in a minute.”
“I solely wants to know if my voice is to be regarded in this yere
play, that's all,” retorts Cheyenne Bill.
“Gents,” says Doc Peets, who has been silently listening. “I'm with
you on this hangin'. These Eastern sharps is here in our midst. It'll
impress 'em that Wolfville means business, an' it's a good, safe,
quiet place. They'll carry reports East as will do us credit, an' thar
you be. As to the propriety of stringin' Cheyenne, little need be said.
If the Chinaman ain't enough, if assaultin' of an innocent tenderfoot
ain't enough, you can bet he's done plenty besides as merits a lariat.
He wouldn't deny it himse'f if you asks him.”
There is a silence succeeding the rather spirited address of Doc
Peets, on whose judgment Wolfville has been taught to lean. At last
Enright breaks it by inquiring of Cheyenne Bill if he has anything to
offer.
“I reckons it's your play now, Cheyenne,” he says, “so come a-
runnin.'”
“Why!” urges Cheyenne Bill, disgustedly, “these proceedin's is
ornery an' makes me sick. I shore objects to this hangin'; an' all for
a measly Chinaman too! This yere Wolfville outfit is gettin' a mighty
sight too stylish for me. It's growin' that per-dad-binged-'tic'lar it
can't take its reg'lar drinks, an'——”
“Stop right thar!” says Enright, with dignity, rapping a shoe-box
with his six-shooter; “don't you cuss the chair none, 'cause the chair
won't have it. It's parliamentary law, if any gent cusses the chair
he's out of order, same as it's law that all chips on the floor goes to
the house. When a gent's out of order once, that settles it. He can't
talk no more that meetin'. Seein' we're aimin' to eliminate you, we
won't claim nothin' on you this time. But be careful how you come
trackin' 'round ag'in, an' don't fret us! Sabe? Don't you-all go an' fret
us none!”
“I ain't allowin' to fret you,” retorts Cheyenne Bill. “I don't have to
fret you. What I says is this: I s'pose, I sees fifty gents stretched by
one passel of Stranglers or another between yere an' The Dalis, an' I
never does know a party who's roped yet on account of no
Chinaman. An' I offers a side bet of a blue stack, it ain't law to hang
people on account of downin' no Chinaman. But you-alls seems sot
on this, an' so I tells you what I'll do. I'm a plain gent an' thar's no
filigree work on me. If it's all congenial to the boys yere assembled—
not puttin' it on the grounds of no miser'ble hop slave, but jest to
meet public sentiment half way—I'll gamble my life, hang or no
hang, on the first ace turned from the box, Cherokee deal. Does it
go?”
 Wolfville tastes are bizarre. A proposition original and new finds in
its very novelty an argument for Wolfville favour. It befalls, therefore,
that the unusual offer of Cheyenne Bill to stake his neck on a turn at
faro is approvingly criticised. The general disposition agrees to it;
even the resolute Enright sees no reason to object.
“Cheyenne,” says Enright, “we don't have to take this chance, an'
it's a-makin' of a bad preceedent which the same may tangle us
yereafter; but Wolfville goes you this time, an' may Heaven have
mercy on your soul. Cherokee, turn the kyards for the ace.”
“Turn squar', Cherokee!” remarks Cheyenne Bill with an air of
interest. “You wouldn't go to sand no deck, nor deal two kyards at a
clatter, ag'in perishin' flesh an' blood?”
“I should say, no!” replies Cherokee. “I wouldn't turn queer for
money, an' you can gamble! I don't do it none when the epeesode
comes more onder the head of reelaxation.”
“Which the same bein' satisfact'ry,” says Cheyenne Bill, “roll your
game. I'm eager for action; also, I plays it open.”
“I dunno!” observes Dan Boggs, meditatively caressing his chin;
“I'm thinkin' I'd a-coppered;—that's whatever!”
The deal proceeds in silence, and as may happen in that
interesting sport called faro, a split falls out. Two aces appear in
succession.
“Ace lose, ace win!” says Cherokee, pausing. “Whatever be we
goin' to do now, I'd like to know?” There is a pause.
“Gents,” announces Enright, with dignity, “a split like this yere
creates a doubt; an' all doubts goes to the pris'ner, same as a
maverick goes to the first rider as ties it down, an' runs his brand
onto it. This camp of Wolfville abides by law, an' blow though it be,
this yere Cheyenne Bill, temp'rarily at least, goes free. However, he
should remember this yere graze an' restrain his methods yereafter.
Some of them ways of his is onhealthful, an' if he's wise he'll shorely
alter his system from now on.”
“Which the camp really lose! an' this person Bill goes free!” says
Jack Moore, dejectedly. “I allers was ag'in faro as a game. Where
we-all misses it egreegious, is we don't play him freeze-out.”
“Do you know, Cherokee,” whispers Faro Nell, as her eyes turn
softly to that personage of the deal box, “I don't like killin's none! I'd
sooner Cheyenne goes loose, than two bonnets from Tucson!”
At this Cherokee Hall pinches the cheek of Faro Nell with a
delicate accuracy born of his profession, and smiles approval.
 BLIGHTED
(By the Office Boy)

I
s it hauteur, or is it a maiden's coyness which causes you to turn
away your head, love?”
George D'Orsey stood with his arm about the willowy form of
Imogene O'Sullivan. The scene was the ancestral halls of the
O'Sullivans in the fashionable north-west quarter of Harlem. George
D'Orsey had asked Imogene O'Sullivan to be his bride. That was
prior to the remark which opened our story. And the dear girl softly
promised. The lovers stood there in the gloaming, drinking that
sweet intoxication which never comes but once.
“It isn't hauteur, George,” replied Imogene O'Sullivan, in tones like
far-off church bells. “But, George!—don't spurn me—I have eaten of
the common onion of commerce, and my breath, it is so freighted
with that trenchant vegetable, it would take the nap from your collar
like a lawn mower. It is to spare the man she loves, George, which
causes your Imogene to hold her head aloof.”
“Look up, darling!” and George D'Orsey's tones held a glad note of
sympathy, “I, too, have battened upon onions.”
The lovers clung to each other like bats in a steeple.
“But we'll have to put toe-weights on pa, George; he'll step high
and lively when he hears of this!”
The lovers were seated on the sofa, now; the prudent Imogene
was taking a look ahead.
“Doesn't your father love me, pet?”
“I don't think he does,” replied the fair girl tenderly. “I begged him
to ask you to dinner, once, George; that was on your last trip. He
said he would sooner dine with a wet dog, George, and refused.
From that I infer his opposition to our union.”
“We'll make a monkey of him yet!” and George D'Orsey hissed the
words through his set teeth.
“And my brother?”
“As for him,” said George D'Orsey (and at this he began pacing the
room like a lion), “as for your brother! If he so much as looks slant-
eyed at our happiness, he goes into the soup! From your father I
would bear much; but when the balance of the family gets in on the
game, they will pay for their chips in advance.”
“Can we not leave them, George; leave them, and fly together?”
“Your father is rich, Imogene; that is a sufficient answer.” There
was a touch of sternness in George D'Orsey's tones, and the subject
of flying was dropped.
George D'Orsey lived in the far-off hamlet of Hoboken. He
returned to his home. In three months he was to wed Imogene
O'Sullivan. Benton O'Sullivan had a fit when it was first mentioned to
him. At last he gave his sullen consent.
“I had planned a title for you, Imogene.” That was all he said.
Three months have elapsed. It was dark when the ferryboat came
to a panting pause in its slip. George D'Orsey picked his way through
the crowd with quick, nervous steps. It was to be his wedding-night.
He wondered if Imogene would meet him at the ferry. At that
moment he beheld her dear form walking just ahead.
“To-night, dearest, you are mine forever!” whispered George
D'Orsey tenderly, seizing the sweet young creature by her arm.
The shrieks which emanated from the young woman could have
defied the best efforts of a steam siren.
It was not Imogene O'Sullivan!
The police bore away George D'Orsey. They turned a deaf ear to
his explanations.
“You make me weary!” remarked the brutal turnkey, to whom
George D'Orsey told his tale.
 The cell door slammed; the lock clanked; the cruel key grated as it
turned. George D'Orsey was a prisoner. The charge the blotter bore
against him was: “Insulting women on the street.”
When George D'Orsey was once more alone, he cursed his fate as
if his heart would break. At last he was calm.

“Oh, woman, in our hour of ease,

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please;
But, seen too oft, familiar with her face;
We first endure, then pity, then embrace!”

The Chateau O'Sullivan was a flare and a glare of lights. The

rooms were jungles of palms and tropical plants. Flowers were
everywhere, while the air tottered and fainted under the burden of
their perfume. Imogene O'Sullivan never looked more beautiful.
But George D'Orsey did not come.
Hour followed hour into the past. The guests moved uneasily from
room to room. The preacher notified Benton O'Sullivan that he was
ready.
And still George D'Orsey came not.
“The villain has laid down on us, me child!” whispered Benton
O'Sullivan to the weeping Imogene; “but may me hopes of heaven
die of heart failure if I have not me revenge! No man shall insult the
proud house of. O'Sullivan and get away with it; not without blood!”
The guests cheerfully dispersed, talking the most scandalous
things in whispers.
Imogene O'Sullivan's dream was over.
It was the next night. George D'Orsey stood on the O'Sullivan
porch, ringing the bell. His eye and his pocket and his stomach were
alike wildly vacant.
“Sic him, Bull! Sic him!” said Benton O'Sullivan, bitterly.
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