Phil noticed no evidence of sheet music, so familiar in a white man's orchestra. These were real artists and they played entirely from memory.

In an endeavour to be enlightened, Phil touched a Chinaman in front of him—for the familiar one at his side had slipped quietly to some other part of the hall.

"John,—what all this play about—you know?" he asked.

Without turning round, the Oriental sang to him in a top-storey voice:—

"Lu-wang Kah Chek-tho, chiu-si. Tung-Kwo chi Ku-su. Savvy?"

Phil did not "savvy," but another Chinaman, more obliging and more English, who introduced himself as Mee Yi-ow, told him the gist of the tale in pigeon English, up to the point where Phil had come in, so that he was able to follow the performance with some intelligence, from there on.

Away back in the middle ages, a bold, bad, blood-thirsty brigand chief kidnapped the only daughter of the Empress, because of that young lady's irresistible beauty and charm and because of his own unquenchable love for her. He, in turn, was trapped and captured by the Royal Body Guard, who brought him—manacled in chains with cannon balls at the ends of them—before the haughty Empress. He was sentenced to death by nibbling—a little piece to be skewered out of him every two hours, Chinese time.

The Brigand Chief, on the side, was a hand-cuff expert. One day he managed to slip out of his chains and away from his tiresome cannon balls. He made a daring dash for liberty, disarming and killing a sentry. Boldly, he sought out the Captain of the Royal Guard and fought a very realistic duel with him before the Empress and all the members of her retinue who came out from the wings specially to witness the sight.

The rank and file of the Royal Bodyguard—with emphasis on the rank—also stood idly by enjoying the spectacle.

At last, the Brigand Chief slew the Captain of the Guard, and the latter, as soon as he had finished dying, rose to his feet and walked calmly off the stage. Then, amid the rattle of drums and empty cocoanut shells, accompanied by fiddle squeaks, the Royal Guard rushed upon the Brigand Chief, overpowering him and loading him up afresh with his lately lamented chains and cannon balls.

A number of influential people—Princes, Mandarins and things, including the recently kidnapped only daughter of the Empress—pleaded for the gallant fighter's life.

But,—up to closing time that night—the Empress remained obdurate; this being absolutely necessary, as the play continued for six successive evenings.

Throughout the most intensely dramatic incidents, Phil failed to hear a hand-clap or an ejaculation of admiration or pleasure from the sphinx-faced yellow men about him. Yet they seemed intensely interested in the performance.

Cabbages and bad eggs, so dear to the heart of the white actor, would have been preferable to that funereal silence.

Phil was just thinking how discouraging it must be to be a Chinese actor, when, by some signal, unintelligible to him, the play ended for the night. He rose with the audience, made quickly for the only exit and took up his position on the inside, there to await Jim's arrival. When the greater portion of the audience had passed out, Jim rose from his seat in front, picked up a white sheet from a corner of the stage and whirled it about him, throwing an end of it over his left shoulder in the manner of the ancient Grecian sporting gentlemen.

From his looks, he had about three days' growth of whiskers on his face. His eyes, big and dark-rimmed, glowed with an intense inner fire that would have singled him out from among his fellows anywhere.

Jim was well-known and respected among the Chinamen, the more so because of his vagaries.

Suddenly, he raised his arm in a rhythmic gesture of appeal. He uttered one word, arresting and commanding in its intonation:—

"Gentlemen!"

There were not very many gentlemen there, but each one present took the ejaculation as personal. The little crowd stopped and gathered round, gazing up with interest at the erect figure in the aisle, white robed, with hand still outstretched.

After a moment of tense silence, he commenced to recite Burns' immortal poem on brotherly love.

Never had Phil heard such elocution. The intonation, the fervour and fire, the gesticulation were the perfect interpretation of a poet, a mystic, a veritable Thespian. On and on Jim went in uninterrupted, almost breathless silence. Phil was anxious for his friend's well-being, but he stood at the door listening spellbound, as did the Orientals about Jim, and the low whites who had straggled in toward the end of the Chinese performance, half-drunk and doped.

Vigorously, Jim concluded:—

"Then let us pray that come it may, As come it will for a' that, That sense and worth o'er a' the earth May bear the gree, and a' that. For a' that, and a' that, It's coming yet, for a' that, That man to man, the world o'er Shall brothers be for a' that."

When he finished there was a round of applause, in which the Chinamen joined most noisily—an unusual thing for them who had sat throughout the entire evening's play of their own without the slightest show of appreciation.

Phil had heard somewhere that Scotsmen and Chinamen understand each other better than any other nationalities on the globe do, but this was the first time he had had a first-hand ocular demonstration that the Chinaman appreciated the Doric of Robbie Burns, when delivered with the true native feeling.

Langford bowed his acknowledgement in a courtly manner, as Sir Henry Irving might have done before a royal audience.

Some of the maudlin white men shouted for an encore.

Nothing loth, Jim laughingly consented, and a hush went over the crowd again, for there was a peculiar hypnotism coming from this erratic individual that commanded the attention of all his listeners.

A little, old, monkey-faced Chinaman, carrying a parcel in his hand, was standing close by. Langford caught hold of him gently and stood the bashful individual before him. In paternal fashion he placed his hand on the greasy, grey head and started impressively into the farewell exhortation of Polonius to Laertes, out of Hamlet:

"And these few precepts in thy memory. Look thou to character. Give thy thoughts no tongue Nor any unproportion'd thought his act. Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar"...

On he recited, oblivious of all but the charm of the words he uttered, careful lest a single phrase might pass his lips without its due measure of expression. He finished in a whisper; his voice full of emotion and tears glistening in his deep-set eyes, much to the amazement of the monkey-face upturned to him.

"This above all: to thine own self be true, And it must follow, as the night the day, Thou canst not then be false to any man."

Deep silence followed, until the squeaky voice of little monkey-face broke through:—

"Ya,—you bet,—me savvy!"

It shattered the spell that was on Langford. He laughed, and grabbed the parcel from the hand of the little Chinaman. He pulled the string from it and the paper wrappings, exposing a bloody ox-heart which was destined never to fulfil the purpose for which it was bought.

Throwing off his sheet cloak, Langford became transformed into a figure of early history. He held the ox-heart high in the air with his left hand and struck a soldierly attitude.

He was now the famous Black Douglas of Scotland, fighting his last fight against the Moors in Spain, with the heart of his beloved dead monarch, Robert Bruce, in the silver casket in which he had undertaken to carry it to the Holy Land.

Parrying and thrusting with his imaginary sword, gasping, panting in assumed exhaustion, staggering, recovering and fighting again, then feigning wounds of a deadly nature, he threw the ox-heart over the heads of his gaping spectators toward the door, where it fell at Phil's feet.

"Onward, brave Heart," he cried, "as thou wert wont to be in the field. Douglas will follow thee or die."

Then, casting his audience on either side of him, like falling thistles under a sickle, he sprang toward the exit. When he reached his objective, he stooped to pick up the ox-heart.

Phil smartly placed his foot on it.

Slowly Jim unbent himself, his eyes travelling from the foot that dared to interfere with his will, up the leg, body and chest, until at last they stared into the familiar eyes of his friend, who returned his stare with cold questioning. Thus they looked at each other for a moment, then Jim's eyes averted. He turned quickly away and passed into the darkened roadway.

Phil followed, a short step behind.

Jim heard him and quickened his pace. Phil did likewise. Finally he broke into a run. Phil responded. He ran till his breath began to give out, but try as he would, Langford could not shake his follower.

There was no sign of any recognition; no word passed between them.

Three or four times they circled Chinatown in this way. Langford next dropped into a long, swinging stride and started up toward the railway tracks and out on to the high road of Coldcreek. Doggedly, limpet-like, Phil kept closely to him.

On, on he walked, mile after mile, untiring, apparently unheeding, looking neither to right nor left. And on, on, after him, almost at his side, went his determined friend.

In an hour, Jim cut down a side road and commenced to circle back by the low road, past the lake and once again toward the fairy, twinkling lights of Vernock.

The Post Office clock chimed the first hour of a new day, when they got back.

Jim stopped up in front of a stable, pushed his way inside—for the door was ajar—tumbled down in a corner among some hay and, apparently, was soon fast asleep.

Phil dropped down beside him, but did not close his eyes.

And glad he was of it, for, about an hour later, very stealthily Jim rose on his elbow, looked into Phil's face, and, evidently satisfied that he was unconscious, rose and made softly for the door.

But when he turned to close it behind him, Phil was right by his side.

Without a word, Jim changed his mind and went straight back to his hay bed on the stable floor; and this time he tumbled into a deep sleep.

Phil must have dozed off too, for when he awoke the light of an Autumn sun was streaming through a dirty window on to his face.

He started up in consternation, but his fears were soon allayed for Jim Langford was still sleeping peacefully, dead to the world, with an upturned face tranquil and unlined, and innocent-looking as a baby boy's.

The work horses in their stalls were becoming restless. Phil examined his watch. It was six o'clock.

He knew that the teamster would soon be on his job getting his beasts ready for their day's work, so he roused Langford, who sat up in a semi-stupor, licking his lips with a dry, rough tongue.

He gazed at Phil for a while. Phil smiled in good humour.

"Man, but I'm a rotter!" said Jim.

"Of course you are!" agreed Phil. "We're both more or less rotters."

"But that son of a lobster McGregor knocked you cold," he pursued, starting in where he had left off several days before.

"He did, Jim, and threw me through the window to wind up with."

"And I'm the man that knows it, too. Lord!—but I'm as dry as if I had been eating salt fish for a week."

"And you can have a nice, big drink of fresh water at the trough outside whenever you are ready."

"Water, Phil! Have a heart!"

"Sure thing! Good fresh water!"

"'Water, water, everywhere, and not a drop to drink,'" he quoted.

And sitting up, there among the hay, a strangely assorted pair they seemed as they conversed familiarly.

"Well,—I fancy I've had about enough this trip."

"You certainly have!"

"Ay, Phil,—but think of that big shrimp knocking us soft."

"Us, did you say?" put in Phil. "Then it is true, after all?"

"What?"

"That he finished you off after he put me to sleep!"

Langford tried to spit in disgust, but despite the greatness of his disgust his mouth and salivic glands refused to function.

"Oh, man!—it makes me sick. The big, long-legged, red-haired devil has been learning to box on the quiet. And to think that he had that up his sleeve, and was just waiting for us!"

"Tell me what happened after I got mine, Jim. I haven't heard it right yet."

"Everything happened. I went out and picked you up. I got some of the boys to take you home after I knew that you weren't really booked for 'The Better Land.' Then I went back to lick the stuffing out of Rob Roy. He was in there, grinning and throwing out his chest like a pouter pigeon."

"'You want the same dose?' he asked.

"'That's what I came for,' said I. And, Phil, between you and me, that's just about what I got.

"We fought in the bar-room for three-quarters of an hour. I never hit him worth a rap, for he had a defence like the Rock o' Gibraltar. He didn't hit me very often, either, but when he did,—Oh, Lord! Well, to make a short story for a thirsty man, we had to quit, both of us, from sheer exhaustion. When we could hardly stand, the Mayor came in and separated us. He sent McGregor and his gang slap-bang home to Redmans. And after that—well, they filled me up to the neck. Oh, I was quite ready to be filled, Phil, for my pride was sorely humbled. And—I've been filled up to the neck ever since.

"What day is it, Phil?"

"Wednesday!"

"This week, last week or next week?"

"This week!"

"Is that all? And it happened only last Saturday. Man!" he cried, springing up, "if that's the case, I've only started."

"You have finished," said Phil decidedly, "finished good and plenty, now and for all."

"But man,—think o' my reputation. I always have a month of it."

"Not this time!"

"But I've done it for years. Think o' tradition!"

"Tradition be-darned! If you do, I'll have a month of it, too."

"That's pure blarney, Phil. You're not that kind."

"No, but I shall be. See if I won't, if you don't quit."

Jim looked into Phil's eyes and he saw a determination in them that he knew he could never shake, and, knowing his own weakness, he would have killed Phil rather than see him in the same plight.

"Man!" he exclaimed in perplexity, "I do believe you would."

"Try me and you'll soon find out."

They sat silently for a time. Suddenly Phil broke in.

"Come on,—what is it to be? Back into decency or a month of hell?" he asked.

Jim Langford got to his feet.

"Lead on, old chum," he said. "Me for a bath, a shave, a good breakfast and—honest toil."



CHAPTER XI

Sol Wants a Good Wife—Bad

Phil was busy in the forge one morning, all alone. Sol Hanson, for some unknown reason, had failed to put in an appearance, and his assistant was not a little troubled over his absence. Before starting out to make inquiries, however, he decided to work away until noon, for it was the day after the Provincial Election, and the results were expected any minute and were anxiously awaited.

He felt quite confident within himself that John Royce Pederstone would be elected, for the candidate had received a splendid reception at all his meetings throughout the Valley, with the solitary exception of the hometown of his opponent. Furthermore, rumour had it that Pederstone's party was sweeping the country, so, if there was anything at all in indications, Royce Pederstone's election was a foregone conclusion.

Phil had noticed that the nearer the election day had drawn, the more serious, nervous and unsettled Sol had seemed to grow, as if he dreaded the possibility of his old master's defeat and was taking it to himself as a personal matter.

At noon time, Phil went out, took a hurried lunch, then strolled down to the office of the Advertiser, where a crowd was gathered reading the results from the various constituencies as they were posted up on the notice-board outside.

Just as he got there, Ben Todd came rushing out of the office, his eyes jumping, his little hunched body quivering with excitement, and his long arms swinging, apelike and energetic. He mounted a chair. He could not settle himself at the start, so all he did was to wave a paper in the air and shout gleefully:—

"He's in, boys! He's in! Vernock is on the map at last. Hip-hip-hurrah, for John Royce Pederstone, M.L.A.!"

The news was received with yells of delight, cat-calls and some real cowboy war-whoops. When the commotion subsided, Ben Todd continued.

"Our new member is coming in on the stage from Kelowna at six-thirty. The band is going to be there, so don't forget to be there too and give him a rouser. The ladies are busy already at the town hall. Supper at seven-thirty and a dance at eighty-thirty till the cows come home. Put on your glad rags, bring your women folks and whoop her up for a fare-you-well."

Thus relieved of his effervescence, Ben Todd threw his slang overboard and started in to a political speech in good English, on the immense possibilities of the Valley in which they were privileged to dwell; the era of prosperity just ahead—in fact, with some already reached; on the increasing demand for property everywhere, the consequent rising values and the prospect of early wealth to the present holders of land; haranguing the good-natured crowd on the outstanding qualities of John Royce Pederstone, their new member; on the wonderful things he would do for the Valley in the matter of irrigation, railroads, public buildings and everything else; eulogising on the tremendous help Mayor Brenchfield had given with his widespread influence and his virile oratory during the final whirlwind tour over the Valley; and last but not least, dwelling on the unfailing support the new member had received from the greatest of British Columbia's inland newspapers, The Vernock and District Advertiser.

Phil had no time to wait to hear all of it. He threaded his way through the crowd and back to the smithy. He had just got his coat off and his sleeves rolled up, when Sol Hanson swaggered in in great style. He was dressed in a loud-checked summer suit, which fitted him only where it touched him. Every button on it was buttoned and straining, and in places the cloth was stretched to bursting point—for no ordinary-sized suit ever fitted Sol Hanson; and, never thinking of such a disloyalty as sending out of the Valley for his clothes, he had, perforce, to content himself with the biggest suit he could obtain in the Vernock stores.

Sol had a black bowler hat, three sizes too small for him, sitting jauntily on the back of his head. His great shock of fair hair was streaming from under it, all round, like a waterfall. It was a new hat, but it looked as if it had had an argument with a dusty roadway.

Later information proved that appearances, so far as the hat was concerned, were not deceptive.

Sol's trousers were tight and straining. They were turned up, high above a pair of flaring yellow boots, displaying some four inches of lavender socks. A red necktie, a walking stick, a huge red rose and a pair of tan gloves completed the external extravaganza. Sol had succeeded in getting one glove on his great ham-like hand, but the other had proved too much for him and he carried it loosely in his hand.

He strutted up and down in front of Phil, with a look of inordinate pride on his big, porridge-soft, Simple Simon face.

Phil gaped in wonder, then, when he could restrain himself no longer, he burst out laughing, much to the dandified Sol's disappointment.

"What's the matter?" he asked, straightening up.

This caused Phil to laugh the more.

"Why, Sol!—you're all dolled up something awful," he remarked.

"Well!—that's all right,—ain't it?"

"Sure thing,—go to it! Mr. Pederstone won't know you when you go up to congratulate him on his victory."

"Ya!—Mr. Pederstone win. I pretty dam-glad. But that ain't any reason why a fellow put on his fine clothes."

"What is it then, Sol? You might tell a fellow. You haven't come into a fortune?"

"No such dam-luck as that! But this my birthday, Phil. I been thirty-three years old to-day."

"Well now!—and I never knew." Phil reached and shook the big Swede's big hand heartily. "Leave it there,—many happy returns, old man!"

Sol's good nature bubbled over, but his face took on a clouded expression shortly after. "'Old man'!" he repeated. "Ya!—you right, Phil, thirty-three, I soon, be old man and I not been got married yet. If I wait two-three year more, nobody have me."

"Oh, go on, you old pessimist. You're a young fellow yet. There's lot of time."

"Maybe—maybe not! Yesterday I think all pretty girl here soon be snapped up. Gretchen Gilder, she get married to that slob Peters last year, and Peters he no dam-good. I never ask Gretchen, or maybe I have her now. I think she been too good. Peters he ask her and get her right off. All them Johnson girls get married; five fine big girl too! Now little Betty McCawl—you know little Irish girl—God bless me!—I just been crazy for her. She go get married day before yesterday to that other Swede, Jan Nansen."

Phil laughed at Sol's rueful countenance, as the latter recounted his matrimonial misses.

"Why!—you're too slow."

"You bet!—too dam-slow to catch myself getting out of bed. I scared to tell little Betty. Think maybe she not like to marry big Swede. Jan Nansen catch her first time. Jan Nansen,—land sakes!—I got more money, more sense, more hair on top my head, more clothes;—I could put Jan in my jean's pocket. Now little Betty, she Mrs. Jan Nansen. Good night and God bless me!"

Sol spat among the hoof parings on the floor in his annoyance.

"Yes, too bad, Sol!" Phil put in.

"Yesterday I say too bad too! I got fine house. Build him all myself too. I got three room, with chairs, tables, fine stove, everything. But I got nobody to keep it nice. Then that dam-fool of a fine little fellow Smiler, he going all plumb toboggan to hell because nobody look after him all day long. Soon no more pretty girl be left, I say to myself:—'Sol Hanson, to-morrow your birthday. You get all dressed up and first girl you meet you ask her if she marry Sol Hanson.' See! Maybe she not take me. All right! I keep on ask next one, then another one, till some girl take me. First one take me, she get me,—see!"

Phil raised his eyebrows in amusement, wondering what next he was about to hear.

"Well, last night I go down to Morrison's store and buy all these. This morning, I have a fine bath, with fine baby soap. I get good shave, dress up swell like this, and come out about one o'clock. One o'clock all fine girl be going back to work after dinner,—see!

"I open front door and get down sidewalk, then come down street. Nobody there; nobody pass me. But when I get ten yard from corner Snider Avenue, who come slap-bang pretty near head-on collision:—big Martha Schmidt."

Phil yelled uproariously as Sol stood there the picture of seriousness.

"Ya,—you laugh. I laugh now,—ha, ha! You know Martha. She maybe thirty, maybe thirty-six. I don't know. She got one good eye; other eye all shot to hell sometime. Just got one big tooth and he stick out good and plenty. Ugh!

"Well,—Sol Hanson every time he dam-good sport and do what he say he do. But I not meet her. I stop quick,—think for one little time,—then Martha cry, 'Hullo, Sol!' I never hear her. I turn quick, walk back all the same as if, maybe, I left my pipe home. I hurry into house, slam door hard and stand inside all shivers like one pound of head cheese waiting to get cold."

"And what then, Sol?"

"Oh,—after while, I peep out and see Martha go up the road. Little while more, all clear, I come out and have one more try.

"This time, first girl for sure, I say. Well—first girl happen to be black buck-nigger Ebenezer Jones's coon kid, Dorothea. Dorothea she dam-fine girl all right. She say, 'Hullo, Kid,—nice day!'

"I look away down the street to corner. I make her think I not see her. I keep on going. She stand on sidewalk, one big fist on each hip and she look after me and say, 'Wal,—I like dat!'"

"Dirty trick!" remarked Phil.

"What? Holy Yiminy!—that fair enough. You don't expect decent white man ask nigger coon wench to marry him. I maybe not mention it to myself when I make deal with myself, but no black nigger, no Chink or Jap for Sol Hanson. I keep single first,—you bet!"

"Quite right!" switched Phil. "Keep the colour scheme right anyway, Sol."

"Well—then white girl come along. 'By gosh!' I say.

"She Miss Gladys Tierney,—you know,—she work typewriter for Commercial Bank.

"I raise my hat and say, 'Good morning, lady!'

"She look me up and down. 'Are you crazy?' she ask. 'You bet!' I say, 'been crazy for you, sweetheart.'

"She sniff and give me regular freeze-out; leave me standing dam-fool foolish.

"Little while more, pretty fine Jane she come along. I see her sometimes; but not know her name.

"Big,—uhm! Work in steam laundry. She wear her sleeves all rolled up; walk very quick like she been going some place. She look good to me, so I step up in front. I take off my hat.

"'How do you do, Jane!'

"She look at me and laugh. Half-smile, half laugh,—you know, Phil. I guess, maybe, it all right. So I try, little bit more.

"'Very nice day, ma'am,' I say.

"'It is,' she say.

"'You look pretty nice!' I say next.

"'That's comforting!' she say next back, very quick.

"'This my birthday.' And I smile to her.

"'It is written all over you,' she answer.

"'You think I look pretty good to you, eh?' I ask.

"'Swell!' she say.

"'You think somebody like to marry me? I got dam-fine house, and furniture, and Smiler.'

"'Somebody might,' she say.

"Well, Phil,—I seem to be getting on pretty good, so I take the bull by the tail and say right bang off the wrong side of the bat, 'You be my wife?'

"'What?' she say, as if maybe she make a mistake in her ear-drums.

"'You marry me?' I ask again.

"She pull the blinds down all over her face just like biff. She take one swing on me, Phil, right there, and pretty near break my jaw;—knock my four dollar hat all to hell in the middle of the road and walk away laughing like, like—oh, like big, fat, laundry maid laugh."

Very seriously, Phil asked his further adventures.

"Ain't that plenty for one day? No dam-good catch wife that way. I try another trick, though. Maybe it work better."

"What's the other trick, Sol?"

The big simpleton drew a pink coloured, badly frayed newspaper out of his pocket. It was The Matrimonial Times, a monthly sheet printed in Seattle and intended for the lonely, lovesick and forlorn of both sexes; a sort of agony column by the mile.

"You don't mean to say you correspond with anybody through that?"

"You bet!"

"And can't you land anyone?"

"Not yet! Everybody say, 'Send photo.' I send it, then no answer come back."

"Never mind!" commiserated Phil. "One of these days your picture will reach the right one and she'll think you're the only man on earth."

"Well,—she have to be pretty gol-darn quick now, for I'm all sick inside waiting."

"Meantime, hadn't you better get back to work, Sol?"

"Guess, maybe just as well."

He went into a corner, took off his glad rags, folded them and laid them carefully on a bench, then donned his working trousers, shirt and leather apron, and was soon swinging his hammer and making the sparks fly as if he had no other thought in the world but the welding of the iron he handled to its fore-ordained shape.



CHAPTER XII

The Dance

That night, Phil and Jim attired themselves in their best clothes and set out for the town hall. There was no missing the way, for Chinese lanterns and strings of electric lights led there, and all pedestrians were making for that important objective.

The two comrades were late in getting there; much too late to be partakers of the supper and listeners to the toasting and speech-making so dear to the hearts of politicians, aspiring politicians, lodge men, newspaper men, parsons, lawyers, ward-committee chairmen and the less pretentious, common-ordinary soap-box orator—whom no community is without. The long-suffering and patient public had evidently been hypnotised into putting up with the usual surfeit of lingual fare by the nerve-soothing influences of a preceding supper with a dance to follow.

Outside the town hall, horses, harnessed and saddled, lined the roadway, hitched to every available post, rail and tree in the vicinity. The side streets were blocked in similar fashion.

The hall inside was a blaze of coloured lights and was bedecked with flags and streamers. The orchestral part of the town band was doing its best. Everybody, his wife and his sweetheart, were conspicuously present, despite the fact that it was the height of the harvest season and most of them had been hard at work in the orchards since early morning, garnering their apple crops, and would have to be hard at it again next day, as if nothing had happened between times to disturb their evening's recuperations.

A number of dances had been gone through, evidently, for the younger ladies were seated round the hall, fanning themselves daintily, while the complexions of the more elderly of them had already begun to betray a perspiry floridness.

The men, young and old alike, mopping their moist foreheads with their handkerchiefs and straining at their collars in partial suffocation, crowded the corridors in quest of cooler air and an opportunity for a pipe or a cigarette. Only a few of the younger gallants lingered in the dance room to exchange pleasantries and bask for several precious extra moments in the alluring presence of some particular young lady with whom, for the time being, they were especially enamoured.

A cheery atmosphere prevailed; both political parties had buried their differences for the night. All were out for a good time and to do honour to the Valley's new parliamentary representative.

The men who congregated in the corridors presented a strange contrast; great broad fellows, polite of manner and speaking cultured English, in full evening dress but of a cut of the decade previous; others in their best blue serges; still others in breeches and leggings or puttees; while a few—not of the ballroom variety—refused to dislodge themselves from their sheepskin chaps, and jingled their spurs every time they changed position.

For the most part, the eyes of these men were clear and bright, and their faces were tanned to a healthy brown from long exposure to the Okanagan's perpetual sunshine. The pale-faced exceptions were the storekeepers, clerks, hotel-men and the bunco-dealers, like Rattlesnake Jim Dalton, who spent their days in the saloons and their nights at the card-tables.

The ladies, seated round the hall, compared favourably with their partners in point of healthy and virile appearance; and many of them, who a few years before, in their former homes in the East and in the Old Land, had not known what it meant to dry a dish, cook a meal or make a dress, who had trembled at the thought of a warm ray of God's blessed sunshine falling on their tender, sweet-milk complexions unless it were filtered and diluted through a parasol or a drawn curtain, now knew, from hard, honest experience, how to cook for their own household and, in addition, to cater for a dozen ever-hungry ranch hands and cattlemen:—knew not only how to make a dress but how to make one over when the necessity called for it; could milk the cows with the best of their serving-girls; could canter over the ranges, rope a steer and stare the blazing summer sun straight in the eye, with a laugh of defiance and real, live happiness.

The feminine hired-help chatted freely with their mistresses in a comradeship and a kind of free-masonry that only the hard battling with nature in the West could engender.

Phil was leaning idly against the door-post at the entrance to the dance-room, contemplating the kaleidoscope, when Jim's voice roused him.

"Phil,—I see your dear, dear friend, Mayor Brenchfield, is here."

"You've wonderful eyesight!" Phil answered. "Brenchfield is hardly the one to let anyone miss seeing him. His middle name is publicity, in capital letters."

"Little chatterbox Jenny Steele tells me he has had three dances out of the last five with Eileen Pederstone," was the next tantaliser.

"That shows his mighty good taste!"

"You bet it does! But he shows darned poor breeding, unless he's tied up to her."

"It is up to her, anyway, and maybe they are engaged," returned Phil, lightly enough.

"I don't doubt that he would like to be. Guess he will be too, sooner or later. Gee!" he continued in disgust, "I wish some son-of-a-gun would cut the big, fat, over-confident bluffer out."

"Why don't you have a try, Jim?" laughed his companion.

"Me? I never had a lass in my life. I'm—I'm not a lady's man. They are all very nice to me, and all that; but I never feel completely comfortable unless it happens to be a woman who could be my great-grandmother."

"You're begging the question, Jim. Why don't you go over and claim a dance or two from Miss Pederstone, seeing you are so anxious over her and Brenchfield?"

"I would,—bless your wee, palpitating, undiscerning soul, but I don't dance."

"Go and talk to her, then."

"And have somebody come over and pick her up to dance with, from under my very nose? No, thanks! This is a dance, man; and the lassies are here to dance. It would be ill of me to deprive her of all the fun she wants.

"You can dance, Phil? I know you can by the way you've been beating your feet every time the band plays. Go on, man!"

"I could dance, once," said Phil, "but——"

"Once! Spirit of my great-great-grandfather! You talk like Methuselah."

"I haven't danced for five years."

"Good heavens, man! This five years of yours gets on my nerves. You must have Rip Van Winkled five years of your precious life away."

The remark bit deep; and Phil grew solemn and did not reply.

Jim looked into his face soberly, then placed his arm on Phil's shoulder.

"Sorry, old man! I'm an indiscreet idiot. Didn't mean to be rude," he said.

Phil smiled.

"But say," Jim urged, still bent on providing himself with some amusement, "go to it and enjoy yourself. Go on, man;—don't be scared!" he goaded.

Phil undoubtedly was scared, although he felt fairly sure, after that first interview in the smithy, that Eileen Pederstone had not recognised him. But he knew he would be running a risk. As he looked at her across the dancing floor, as she sat there in her soft, shimmering silks, her cheeks aglow, her eyes dancing with happiness and her brown curls straying over her forehead—elfish-like rather than humanly robust—he was tempted, sorely tempted indeed.

"Gee, but you're slow!" went on Jim.

"Oh, go to the devil!" Phil muttered irritably.

But Jim grinned the more; the imp in him uppermost.

"You've met her, haven't you, Phil?"

"Yes,—I spoke to her once only, in the smithy."

"Well—that's good enough for a start."

"Do you think so?"

"Sure thing! Eileen Pederstone turn you down! Man alive,—Eileen wouldn't have the heart to turn you down if you had a wooden leg. I'll tell you what! If she turns you down, I'll ask her for a dance myself; and I never danced in my life."

The music was starting up. It was a good, old-fashioned waltz. How Phil's heart beat to the rhythm of it! The men commenced to swarm from the corridors. He took a step forward. Jim pushed him encouragingly from behind with a "Quick, man, before somebody else asks her up!" and he was in the stream and away with the current. He started across, his heart drumming a tattoo on his ribs. Half-way over the floor—and he would have turned back but for the thought of Jim. He kept on, still somewhat indeterminately. When he got near to Miss Pederstone, she looked up almost in surprise, but the smile she bestowed on him was ample repayment for his daring. It was the dancing waters of the Kalamalka Lake under a sunburst.

She held out her hand.

"Good evening, Mr. Ralston! Everybody seems to be here to-night."

"Of course,—isn't this your night?" Phil ventured.

She beckoned him to sit down by her side.

"It isn't my night," she answered; "it is my daddy's."

"You must be very happy at his wonderful victory."

"Yes,—I am very happy, just for father's sake, he was so set on it toward the finish. He is just like a boy who has won a hard race. And now he is being buttonholed by everybody. I shall never have him all to myself any more."

The dancers were already on the floor and gliding away.

"May I have this dance?" asked Phil.

"With pleasure!" she answered. And his heart raced on again, in overwhelming delight. "But first, let us sit just for a moment or so.

"Is Jim Langford with you to-night?" she asked.

"Yes,—he is over there by the door."

"He is a great boy, Jim," she said. "Everybody likes him, and yet he is so terribly foolish at times to his own interests. He doesn't seem to care anything for money, position or material progress. And he is so clever; he could accomplish anything almost, if he set his mind to it. And,—and he is always a gentleman."

"Yes! Jim's pure gold right through," Phil answered with enthusiasm.

"Mr. Ralston, I think you are the only man he has ever been known really to chum with. And he doesn't dance," she added.

"So he tells me."

"Sometimes I fancy he can dance, but refuses to admit it for some particular reason of his own. He looks like a dancer."

"Quite possible!" Phil returned. "I never thought of it in that light."

"He does not seem to hanker after a lady's company very much. He is most at home with the men folks."

"He told me, only a few minutes ago, that he was not a lady's man."

"Ah, but he is!" she differed. "It is true he does not show any inclination for the company of young ladies, but he is very much a lady's man all the same. There isn't a young lady in this hall but would be proud to have the honour of Jim Langford's company and companionship at any time. He is of that deep, mercurial disposition that attracts women. It is good for Jim Langford that he does not know his own power," she said, nodding her dainty head suggestively.

"Shall I tell him?" teased Phil.

"No!—let him find that out for himself. He will enjoy it all the more when he does. Some day, I hope, the right young lady will wake him up. Then maybe he won't be 'Wayward' Langford any more.

"I have heard them call you 'Silent' Ralston."

Her remark startled Phil. In the first place, he fancied the nick-name that had been given him was known merely by the rougher element about town, and it sounded strangely coming from her. Again, that was the name they had given him in Ukalla, and it created an uncanny feeling in him that it, of all nick-names, should again fasten to him.

"But you aren't really so silent,—are you now?"

"No!—I can hold my own in the field of conversation. It is just a foolish name some one tagged on, one day, for lack of brains to think of anything more apt;—and it has stuck to me ever since, as such things have a habit of doing."

"'Wayward' Langford and 'Silent' Ralston!" She turned the words on her tongue reflectively. "What a peculiar combination!"

Phil laughed, but refused to be drawn further.

"Are you as wayward as he?" she asked.

Phil did not answer.

"Are you?" she asked again.

"Jim and I are chums," he answered.

"Which means——?"

"'Birds of a feather——'"

How long they would have chatted on, Phil had no notion, for the lights, the music, the gliding dancers, the gaiety and the intoxicating presence of Eileen Pederstone had him in their thrall. However, he was interrupted by the stout but agile figure of Graham Brenchfield weaving in and out among the dancers and coming their way.

He stopped up in front of them, giving Phil a careless nod. He held out his bent arm to Miss Pederstone.

"This is ours, I think, Eileen," he said. "Sorry I was late. Excuse us, Ralston!"

Phil gasped and looked over to Miss Pederstone.

"No, siree!" answered the young lady, quite calmly and naturally. "I have promised this dance to Mr. Ralston, and was just resting a little bit before starting out."

"Pshaw!—Ralston doesn't dance," he bantered. "This is a dandy waltz,—come!"

"But you do dance, Mr. Ralston?" she put in.

"Of course I do!" said Phil, springing up. And, in a moment, they sailed away from him whose very presence tainted the atmosphere for Ralston.

A backward glance showed Brenchfield glooming after them, the fingers of one hand fumbling with the pendant of his watch-chain, the fingers of the other pulling at his heavy, black moustache.

But who had any desire to keep the picture of one such as he in memory, in the new delights that were swarming in on Phil?

He held Eileen Pederstone lightly within the half-hoop of his arm. She was but a floating featherweight. But, ah! the intoxication of it, he could never forget: the violins singing and sighing in splendid harmony and time; the perfume of the lady's presence; the soft, sweet, white, living, swaying loveliness; the feeling of abandonment to the pleasure of the moment that enveloped him from his partner's happy heart. Great God!—and Phil a young man in the first flush of his manhood, exiled from the presence of womanhood for five years, shut away from the refining of their influence and in all that time never to have felt the charm of a woman's voice, the delight of a woman's happy laugh, never to have felt the thrill of the touch of a woman's hand;—and suddenly to be released at the very Gates of Heaven: little wonder he was dumb, sightless and deaf to all else but the bewitchment of the waltz.

Phil thought he had forgotten the way, but, ah! how they danced as they threaded their way through and round. No one touched them; none stopped the swing, rhythm and beat of their movements.

Once Eileen spoke to him, but he did not comprehend. She looked up into his face and, as he gazed down into her eyes, he thought she must have understood his feelings, for she did not attempt conversation again.

He was as a soul without a body, soaring in the vastnesses of the heavens, in harmony and unison with the great and perfect God-created spirit world of which he formed an infinitesimal but perfect and necessary part.

Gradually, and all too soon, alas!—for it seemed to him that they had hardly started—the music slowed and softened till it died away in a whisper, and he was awakened to his surroundings by the sudden burst of applause from the dancers on every side of them.

He did not wait to ascertain if there might be a few more bars of encore. He did not know, even, that there was a possibility of such. Still in a daze, he led Eileen Pederstone to her seat. He thanked her, bowed and turned to cross the floor. But she did not sit down. She laid a detaining hand gently on his arm.

"Thank you so much!" she said. "I enjoyed it immensely. And Mr. Brenchfield dared to say you couldn't dance!"

Phil smiled, but did not reply. The spell of the dance had not yet entirely gone from him.

"Are you afraid to ask me if there might be another?" she inquired, with a coy glance and just a little petulance in her voice.

"Can you—can you spare another?"

"Of course, I can!"

"Another waltz?" he queried eagerly.

"The dance fourth from now is a waltz," she answered.

"May I have it?"

"Yes!"

Brenchfield—surly watch-dog that he was—was at their heels again. This time, the refreshment buffet was his plea.

Phil abandoned his partner to him with good grace, for even Graham Brenchfield could not quench his good spirits over the great enjoyment he still had in store;—another waltz with Eileen Pederstone.

In the hallway, he encountered Jim, who twitted him for a moment for his great courage, but Phil could see that Jim had something on his mind that had not been there when he had left him. They went to the outside door and stood together in the cool, night air.

"Gee Phil!—but this is a grand night for these feed sneaks to pull off something big," he said, in that mixture of Scotticisms and Western Canadian slang that he often indulged in.

"What makes you think of that?"

"Look at the sky, man!—black as ink and not a moon to be seen. Everybody is at the dance; Chief Palmer and Howden are here; the Mayor, the Aldermen, Royce Pederstone, Ben Todd; why, man,—the town outside there is empty.

"Did you notice anything peculiar in the gathering in there, Phil?"

"No! How do you mean?"

"Not a mother's son of that Redman's bunch is present."

"But they're not much of a dancing crowd."

"You bet they are!—when it suits them. You never saw a crowd of cowpunchers that weren't.

"I have the keys to the O.K. Supply Company's Warehouse on the tracks. Are you game for a nose around, just to see if there's anything doing?"

"What's the good of worrying over a thing like that to-night, Jim? Let's forget it and have a good time."

Jim laughed. "Well,—I'm going anyway. Say, Phil! I've not only got the keys to the O. K. Warehouse, but I have keys that fit Brenchfield's and the Pioneer Traders' as well."

"Better watch you don't get pinched yourself," Phil cautioned.

"De'il the fear o' it, Phil! But I'm going to get one over that bunch if it is only to satisfy my own Scotch inquisitiveness. At the same time, I would like to help out Morrison of the O.K. Company. He's a good old scout, and this thieving is gradually sucking him white. Palmer and his crowd don't seem to be able to make anything of it—or don't want to—yet it has been going on for years."

"I should like to come," Phil answered, "only I've promised to have another dance with Miss Pederstone, and I couldn't possibly think of disappointing myself in the matter. Give me a line on where you'll be, and I'll come along and join you as soon as that particular dance is over. Won't you stick around till then, and we can go together?" he suggested.

"No! I have a kind of hunch there is things doing. You hurry along as soon as you can. Keep your eyes open and, if all is quiet, come round to the track door of the middle Warehouse, Brenchfield's. You should be up there by eleven-thirty. I'll be there then, sharp at that time, and will let you in if all is jackaloorie."

"Have you a gun?"

"Sure!" replied Jim, "and one for you. Here!—stick it in your pocket now. It is loaded. Darned handy thing!"

Phil walked part of the way up the back streets with Jim.

It was noisy as usual round Chinatown, with its squeaky fiddle, tom-tom and cocoanut-shell orchestras, intensified by a fire-cracker display on the part of the more aristocratic Chinese in honour of John Royce Pederstone's victory. The remainder of the town, apart from the neighbourhood of the dance-hall, was in absolute quietness.

Phil parted from Jim near the railway tracks and slowly retraced his steps toward the town hall, whose blaze of lights stood out in high contrast with the surrounding darkness.

When Phil got back, the band had just concluded a cheery two-step and the dancers were scattering in all directions for seats round the hall and for the buffet.

Eileen Pederstone caught sight of him as soon as he entered, and signalled him over.

"I thought you had gone home, Mr. Ralston," she remarked, her eyes sparkling with enjoyment and her breath coming fast with the exertion of the dance.

Phil took in her slender, shapely, elfin beauty, and his heart beat a merry riot of pleasure as he sat down by her side.

"I went along the road a bit with Jim," he answered. "He had some business he wished to see to."

"Poor Jim," laughed Eileen, "he takes life so strangely; at times tremendously seriously; at others as if it meant nothing at all. Now he plays the solemn and mysterious, and again he assumes the role of the irresponsible harlequin. I don't think anyone really understands Jim Langford."

"I don't think anyone does," agreed Phil.

"Are you awfully anxious that we should dance this next waltz?" she asked, suddenly changing the subject.

"Why?" asked Phil, a little crestfallen.

"I should like to have a little stroll in the fresh air, if you don't mind. It is dreadfully warm in here and I have been dancing continuously. Do you mind?"

"Not at all!" said Phil.

He helped her with her cloak. She put her arm through his and they went out into the open air together.

It was eleven o'clock. The street lights went out suddenly, leaving everything in inky blackness.

It was a night with a shudder in it.

Eileen clung tightly to Phil's arm as they strolled leisurely along, leaving the lights of the dance-hall and the noise behind them, and going down the main avenue in the direction that led to the Okanagan Lake.

"Do you know, Mr. Ralston," remarked Eileen suddenly, during a lull in what had been a desultory, flippant, bantering sort of conversation, "I can't explain how it is and I know it is ridiculous on the face of it; but sometimes I have the feeling that I have met you before."

Phil felt a tightening in his jaws, and he was grateful for the darkness.

"Do you ever feel that way about people?"

"Oh, yes,—occasionally,—with some people!" Phil stammered. "I feel that way with Jim Langford all the time."

"But I can't ever have met you before you came to Vernock?"

"No,—oh no! I am quite sure of that," said Phil.

"Haven't you ever been here before?"

"No,—never!" Phil had to say it.

"You've never seen me in Vancouver for instance,—or in Victoria?"

"No,—I can't remember ever having seen you till I came up here. Of course, I was only a short time in Vancouver before coming to Vernock," he hedged.

"Then your home isn't in the West?"

"No,—it is away back in a town in Ontario."

"Mr. Brenchfield is an Ontario man," put in Eileen innocently.

"Is he?" returned Phil, on guard.

"But it is the funniest thing, Mr. Ralston," she reverted, "sometimes it is your voice; while in the hall to-night it seemed to be your eyes that reminded me of someone I had known before. A trick of the mind, I daresay!"

"Just a trick of the mind!" agreed Phil, "unless maybe you believe in the transmigration of souls."

Eileen shivered suddenly.

"Guess we'd better get back," said Phil, "for the air is chilly."

They turned and sauntered toward the town.

"Are you waiting until the end of the dance, Mr. Ralston?"

"No! I promised to meet Jim round about eleven-thirty."

"Jim!" she repeated. "You and Jim seem to be thick as sweethearts."

"Thicker!" responded Phil, "because we never fall out."

"Do sweethearts fall out so often?"

"I fancy so, from what I hear."

"Then you think two men can be greater friends than a man and a woman can?"

"Greater friends,—truer friends,—more sincere friends and faithful,—yes!"

Eileen's hold on Phil's arm loosened.

"What makes you think so?" she asked.

"Well,—with men it is purely and simply a wholehearted attraction of congenial tastes and manly virtues or evil propensities, as the case may be. There is no question of sex coming between. When that enters into the reckoning, everything else goes by the board. Not that I infer that man and woman cannot be true friends and fast friends, but everything has to take second place to that question of sex."

Eileen did not answer.

"Don't you agree?" asked Phil with a smile.

"No,—I do not, but I don't feel that I can argue the point."

They were silent once more. Then again Eileen broke into the quiet.

"Oh, dear!—I almost forgot. I wonder, Mr. Ralston, if you would care to come to our place the week after next. Daddy, you know, has bought Baron DeDillier's house on the hill, and we are going to have a house-warming and a big social time for all daddy's friends. Would you care to come if I send you an invitation? Jim will be there. He seldom gets left out of anything, pleasant or otherwise."

Phil was not so very sure of himself, and he would have preferred rather to have been omitted, but he could not, in good grace, decline such an invitation.

"Why, certainly!" he replied. "It will give me the greatest of pleasure."

"Good! We shall have a nice dance together to make up for the one we missed to-night,—and a talk. Maybe that night I shall be in better frame of mind for meeting your arguments on the relations of sex and friendship."

Phil laughed in his own peculiar way.

Eileen Pederstone stopped up with a start and looked at him with half frightened eyes, as if endeavouring to recall a bad dream yet half afraid lest it should return to her.

Phil knew that an echo had touched her memory from that laugh.

He was about to speak of something else, to take away her thoughts, when a shadow crept up to Phil's side and a hand pulled at his coat sleeve.

He turned quickly and caught at the hand. He pulled its owner round sharply.

It was Smiler—the never-fading grimace on his face, through which penetrated an expression of fear.

"What is it? What is the matter?" asked Phil quickly.

Smiler moved his hands excitedly, trying desperately to make himself understood thereby.

He kept tugging at Phil's coat, as a dog might do, and endeavoured to get him to go along with him.

Phil tried him with several questions.

"Is it Jim Langford?" he asked at last.

Smiler nodded excitedly and pulled at Phil's coat more desperately than ever.

"Jim Langford has sent Smiler for me, Miss Pederstone. I know you will excuse me. Let me hurry you back to the hall."

"It can't be anything serious?" she queried anxiously, "no accident or anything like that?"

"Oh, no!—but Jim's a queer fish and I guess it will be best to get to him as quickly as possible. No saying what trouble he gets into in the course of five minutes."

Phil saw her safely back to the hall, wished her "Good night," and darted after Smiler who was waiting for him in the shadows.



CHAPTER XIII

The Big Steal

On Phil went through the back lanes of the town and up the hill toward the railway tracks, almost trotting in his endeavour to keep pace with the tireless Smiler.

They went past the three Warehouses,—Brenchfield's, The Pioneer Traders' and that of The O.K. Supply Company,—till Smiler came to a stand-still in front of an old, unused barn which stood in the yard in front of the central Warehouse belonging to Graham Brenchfield. Phil pushed his way inside and looked about him inquiringly.

Smiler pointed to a coal-oil lamp which hung—a dark shadow—from a nail on the wall.

Phil closed the barn door tightly, struck a match and set the lantern alight.

The barn floor was littered with damp, stale-smelling straw. Smiler kicked some of it away and knelt down. He commenced to work his fingers into the flooring boards. He gave an inarticulate chuckle when he came to a certain part, gave a tug, and immediately half of the floor swung up on well-oiled hinges, disclosing a cellar or vault almost big enough to let down a dray-load of merchandise at a time.

Phil whistled.

Smiler seized the lamp and started down by a wooden ladder, but Phil grabbed him by the coat collar, pulled him sheer out, planting him down on the floor by his side.

"After me, my dear Alphonso?" he commanded, going down the ladder with the lamp in one hand and his revolver in the other, holding on to the side of the ladder at the same time with a few of his fingers, as best he could.

He had hardly reached the bottom when Smiler was tumbling beside him. The boy ran over to a corner of the cellar. Phil followed.

A huddled bundle lay on the damp ground. Phil dropped beside it and turned it over, setting down his lantern.

It was the unconscious form of Jim Langford, trussed with knotted ropes until it looked more like a bale of cast-off clothing than a human being. Jim's face was white and all bloody-streaked at the forehead and mouth.

Phil took out his knife and slashed at the ropes. He chafed the arms and legs. He tossed his hat to Smiler and said one word:

"Water!"

Smiler ran off up the ladder and was back in less than a minute.

Phil seized the hat and splashed some of the cold water on the upturned face, wiping the blood from Jim's mouth with his handkerchief.

After a bit, Jim sighed and opened his eyes. Phil held his hat to the oozy lips and Jim drank greedily. Soon he was all alert. He sprang to his feet, staring around him wildly.

"Damn them, the Siwashes! Damn them,—they got me! And they've got awa'."

Then he sagged at the knees and collapsed.

He did not lose consciousness again.

"Take your time!—take your time!" cautioned Phil.

Slowly Jim's strength returned and his brain cleared. He wanted to be up and away at once, but Phil, with his usual caution, insisted on hearing everything that had happened before he would move a foot, knowing that if anything had still to be done Jim would be none the worse for half an hour's rest.

"Stay where you are and tell me all about it," he insisted.

"Stay! Hang it, man,—I canna stay. Come on! I'll show ye. It will be better than sitting here and talking. But bide a bit! We'll get them yet or my name's no' Jim Langford.

"Smiler," he cried, "come here laddie!"

The boy came forward.

"Go up to Mrs. Clunie's. Shut the barn door up there after ye. Don't make a noise. Saddle our two horses and bring them doon to the corner. Our rifles as well;-they're in the locker behind the stable door! Quick! Awa' wi' ye!"

Smiler nodded his head rapidly and was up the ladder and off like a shot.

"Come along here!" Jim continued to Phil.

Phil sucked his breath at what he saw, or rather did not see.

It was not a cellar after all,—but a tunnel.

"Weel ye may gasp!" ejaculated Jim, holding up the lantern and peering ahead. "Come on!

"Have you your revolver?"

"Yes!"

"Keep a grip of it then. I hardly think there'll be a body here now. But it's as well to keep your wits about ye."

Jim went on first and Phil followed.

Phil's foot struck metal. He looked down.

Two rails ran along the bottom of the tunnel.

"Nothing obsolete about this bunch!" whispered Jim jocularly.

They followed along in caution till they came to a truck on the rails capable of holding twenty sacks of flour or feed at a time.

On either side of them were walls of sacked flour and other grain.

"The Lord only knows how far this underground warehouse extends," remarked Jim, "and how many thousands of dollars worth of stuff is cached away in it, ready to haul away as the chance comes along."

They passed on until they must have been under Brenchfield's warehouse, when the tunnel dead-ended, branching off to the right and to the left.

Jim stopped.

"That's about all," he said. "Brenchfield's warehouse is above us. The Pioneer Traders' is at the end that way. The O.K. Supply Company's is at the other end.

"See! There is a trap door in each, like this up here, that drops inward and acts as a chute for sliding down the stuff right onto the track. Simplest thing on earth, and it has been going on for years with devil a body the wiser."

"Well!—of all the elaborate thieving schemes!" exclaimed Phil, dumbfounded.

"Elaborate nothing! Why, man, thousands and thousands of dollars worth of feed and flour have been stolen from these three places in the last five years—as much as ten thousand dollars at a crack.

"I'm thinking they've got off with that much right this very night. It is just a great big organised, dirty steal,—that's all. Little wonder some folks get rich quick in this Valley, without any apparent outward reason for their luck either in themselves or in what they seem to be engaged in."

"How did you find all this out?" inquired Phil, his face white with excitement.

"Oh,—easy enough in a way! I was in Brenchfield's warehouse, hiding. I told you I had the key to it. By good or bad luck—I don't know which—I was hiding on top of the darned trap door without being aware of it. I heard a noise, and thought it was in the warehouse where I was. Suddenly the flour sacks on every side of me began to slide. I had just to slide with them; there was nothing else for it; and before I could wink I was down here and in among the gang,—Rob Roy McGregor, Summers, Skookum, and half a dozen others; the whole of that Redmans gang; half-breeds and dirty whites.

"I shot a hole in one of them, then my gun got struck out of my hand. I knocked down two with my fists and made a dash for it. I got to the ladder at the old barn there and ran up, but I forgot about a man who happened to be at the top. He dropped the trap-door crash on my head, and that's the last I can mind."

"Good Lord!" cried Phil.

"And the murdering hounds, not content with that, trussed you up and left you here like a rat in a sewer."

"Ay!—to come back later, maybe, when they had more time, finish me off and bury me in the bowels o' the earth."

Jim pulled himself together.

"Phil," he cried, "come on! We're wasting time here. I'm going to get that bunch before I sleep."

Once outside, they reclosed the barn-door, leaving everything exactly as they had found it. Up the road a little, the faithful Smiler was standing with the two rifles, two cartridge belts, and the two horses from Mrs. Clunie's saddled and bridled to perfection.

"Smiler!—go home to bed," said Jim.

Smiler nodded, grinned and ran off.

"Phil, do you know where Jack McLean, the manager of The Pioneer Traders, lives?"

"Yes!"

"Then tear up there and put him wise. Get hold of Blair, their grocery man, as well. He's a grand scrapper. Get them to bring their rifles.

"Don't tell a soul but these two what the game is."

"What else?"

"I'm going to rustle up Morrison of the O.K. Supply, then down to the Town Hall for two or three who are game for a free-for-all. Make hell-bent-for-leather down to Allison's Wharf at Okanagan Landing. We can leave our horses there, cross the lake to the other side below Redmans, and be on the main road there that leads from Vernock to Redmans a full hour ahead of them; and collar the bunch—men, wagons, feed and every damned thing, as they come sliddering along thinking they're safe."

"Jee-rusalem!" cried Phil, as the plan dawned on him.

"But are you sure they are taking the road that way and that Redmans will be where they are making for?"

"You bet I'm sure! And the long way round the hills and the head of the lake is the only way they can make Redmans with heavy wagons. Any bairn knows that they'll reckon to get there just before dawn. The whole bunch are breeds and klootchmen from there, and they're not likely to cache their steal any place but where they can get at it handy. Now, off you go!"

Phil sprang into his saddle.

"Say!" whispered Jim, straining upwards, "I'm going to bring the Mayor along."

"Oh, hang the Mayor!" cried Phil hotly. "If we are going to be helping him in any way, I guess you can count me out."

"But, Phil, laddie;—McLean of the Pioneer Company is coming, and Morrison of the O.K. Company is coming.

"We can hardly leave Brenchfield out." Jim's voice was somewhat sarcastic in its tone.

"Oh, I suppose not!" said Phil sourly, and unconvinced.

Jim laughed.

"Man, but you're thick in the skull. Eh, but it's a lark!" he remarked, giving Phil's mare a whack on the flank and sending her galloping off without further words of elucidation.

Phil found Jack McLean in his front parlour—late as it was—reading a book to his last pipe before turning in. In as few words as possible, he told him of what had happened and of the plan for the capture of the thieves. McLean required no persuading. In five minutes he was on his horse, ready for any escapade and swearing as volubly as only a hardened official of the Pioneer Traders can who has been systematically robbed without being able to lay the thieves by the heels.

In ten minutes more, McLean, big Blair and Phil were heading west, galloping hard for the Landing at the head of the Okanagan Lake.

The night was dark as pitch; there wasn't a star in the sky nor was there a breath of moving air anywhere.

They reached Allison's Wharf in quick time, roused the complaining lake-freighter and got him busy on his large gasoline launch. Not long after that a clatter of hoofs on the hard roadway, a sudden stoppage, and the sound of deep voices, betrayed the arrival of the others: Langford, Morrison, Thompson the Government Agent, and the one police official whom Phil felt was absolutely above suspicion,—Howden, who was Chief Palmer's deputy—and Brenchfield, surly as a bear;—all powerful men and capable of giving a good account of themselves in a tight place.

They were eight, all told, with Allison in addition looking after his own affairs, and they set out across the lake for the quiet little landing below the Redmans settlement, leaving their horses at Allison's place.

"Howden,—why didn't you bring the Chief?" asked Phil.

"Wish to hell we had! Might have saved me the trouble of coming. He's up on the ranges somewhere. There's a lot of cattle missing up there lately and he's keen on catching some of the rustlers red-handed."

"Or red-headed," grinned Jim. "This trip might prove the way to catch them too."

"Do you think the same bunch is operating both jobs?" asked Howden.

"Sure!" replied Jim.

"Oh, give us a rest!" broke in Brenchfield. "A smart lot you wise-Alicks know about it. To hear you talk, one would think you had been raised on a detective farm."

Jim laughed good-naturedly.

"All right, old man! Don't get sore. You've been a grouch ever since we asked you to come along. One would think you didn't have any interests tied up in this affair."

"Then I guess that one has another think coming," answered the Mayor.

"Well,—you're devilish enthusiastic over it; that's all I've got to say," interjected Morrison, who was simply bubbling over with excitement and expectancy,—not so much from the thought of recovering his stolen property as from a hope that, if the thieves were captured, he would at last have a chance to reap the benefits of his labours, unmolested.

"Who wants to be enthusiastic on a wild-goose chase like this?" commented Brenchfield. "I've been on the run these last three weeks, dancing all this evening, and now the delightful prospect of lying in a ditch till morning, and nothing at all at the end of it but the possibility of a rheumatic fever. You juvenile bath-tub pirates and Sherlock Holmeses give me a pain."

"And I'll bet you a new hat we'll land the whole rotten bunch of them before we're through," challenged Morrison.

"Forget it!" grouched Brenchfield, "I've lost as much as any man here, but I haven't made a song and dance about it like some people I know. I am just as anxious as any of you to see the thieves in jail."

Evidently it was not a night for pleasant conversations, and tempers seemed to be more or less on edge, so little more was said until the launch ran quietly alongside the old, unused wharf a quarter of a mile east of the new one at Redmans.

The men got out, one after another, leaving Allison to make his way back to his own side, alone; as they did not require him further.

Jim led the way through the bush and up the trail toward the main highway.

They had not gone more than two hundred yards, when a muttered oath, a noise of stumbling, and a crash, brought them to a stand-still. It was Brenchfield who had stumbled into a hole or over a log. Ready hands helped him up, but he immediately dropped back on the ground with a groan, in evident pain from his ankle.

"Hell mend it!" he growled. "I've turned my ankle in a blasted gopher hole or something."

He writhed about in agony.

"Guess I'm out this trip," he moaned.

"Toots!" put in Jim. "You'll be all right in a minute. Let us give your foot a bit of a rub!"

"Strike a light and let me see what's what," suggested the Mayor.

Someone started in to do so.

"Not on your life!" cried Jim. "Haven't you got more savvy than that? Do you want the whole of that gang up there in on our top?"

A dog barked in the distance and the bark was taken up ominously by other dogs around the settlement.

"Lower your voices and don't make any racket, for God's sake!" pleaded Jim. "Come on, make a try, Brenchfield!"

"What else do you think I'm doing?" growled the Mayor between his teeth. He did make a strong effort then, but was unable to bear his foot on the ground.

"Darn it! It's no good!" he exclaimed, sitting down disgustedly on a log.

"Well, boys," returned Jim, in a hopeless tone, "I guess we've got to leave him. One of us will have to stay with the Mayor. That will leave six for the job ahead of us. Guess we can manage! Will you stay with him, Blair?"

"Sure thing!" came the ready reply, "but I hate to miss the fun."

The Mayor's face could not be seen, but his voice broke in rather too quickly:

"Good heavens!—my own ranch is just up there over the hill. I can creep there on my hands and knees inside of half an hour;—and I won't have to do that.

"No, siree! Nobody's going to stay with me. I'm all right. I'll get along nicely by myself. Every man-jack of you is needed for the job. Go on! Beat it! Don't worry about me."

"We're not worrying about you, Graham," retorted Jim, not sufficiently suggestive to set the Mayor at discomfort. "But you know the rule of the trail, same as we do. When a man gets hurt on a hunting trip, another of the bunch stays with him. Joe Blair is willing to stay behind."

"He won't stay with me, I tell you;—this thing isn't going to be held up or spoiled for me," exclaimed the Mayor. "I'll crawl with you on my fours, first."

He started to carry out his threat.

Three times he fell and groaned in pain, until Jim became convinced that Brenchfield's foot was really badly sprained.

"Won't you leave me here? I'll be all right in a while," cried out Brenchfield, "then I can make my own place in my own time."

"Oh, let's leave him, Jim. We may need every man we've got," said Morrison, "and if any of us take him to his place, it might arouse suspicion."

"Yes!—what's the good of losing two men when one is all we need let go?" added McLean.

"All right, all right!" said Jim. "Here's the flask, Mayor. Come on, boys! Time's passing and we've a goodish bit to go yet."



CHAPTER XIV

The Round-Up

The remainder of the journey was made in silence, and without further mishap. The thick of the crude trail was left behind and they got on to the well-beaten highway, trudging along at a fast gait until they came to the Snake Loop with its two roads—one leading for a mile or so along the lower shore line; the other running round Big Horn Hills.

Jim stopped at the forks.

"Say!—I'm thinking three of us had better go by one way and four of us by the other;—just in case of accidents.

"McLean, Phil and I can go the low way. You four go by the high road. We can wait for each other at the junction further on."

The crowd split up and parted.

Jim, Phil and McLean had only got along about half a mile, when they stopped up at the sound of the fast beating of horse hoofs on the highway behind them.

They listened intently.

"Coming from Redmans," whispered McLean.

"Run on ahead and get in among the bushes at the bend there," shouted Jim. "I'll keep to the road, and whoever he may be I'll stop him as he comes up. If he tries to beat me to it,—shoot! See your ropes are O.K., Mack, for you might have to use them quick."

The two hurried ahead and disappeared. Jim kept jogging along in the middle of the road, slowly and innocently.

The clatter of the oncomer grew louder and louder, and beat faster.

A horseman came tearing along at breakneck speed. When he was some twenty paces off, Jim swung round, levelled his rifle and shouted.

"Stop! Throw up your hands! Quick!"

The horse drew back on its haunches and sprang up in fear, but the rider had it in check and held his seat. He steadied his beast and put his hands up slowly.

Jim went forward. As he drew closer he recognised the rider—Red McGregor.

"Get down!" ordered Jim, smiling grimly to himself.

McGregor seemed to recognise Langford at the same time and, thinking Jim was alone, took a chance.

His off hand lowered and he pulled a gun quickly, but a shot and a flash from the side of the road were quicker still. His arm dropped limply and he yelled in pain and surprise.

"Get down!" ordered Jim again.

"You be damned!" cried McGregor, swinging his horse round and setting spurs.

The horse sprang in response. Jim thought he was going to make it, when a lariat flew out like a long snake, poised for a second over Red's head and, in a second more, stretched him on the roadway, half-choked.

McLean held the rope taut, while Jim and Phil ran in and secured their prisoner.

"What'n the hell's the matter with you bunch," gasped Red. "Can't a man go to Vernock when he damned-well wants to?"

"Not always, Red!" answered Jim. "It isn't always healthy to want to go to Vernock."

"By God!—let me go and I'll take you on one at a time—two at a time if you like. You, Langford,—I'll fix you for this anyway."

"We're going to fix you first, Rob Roy McGregor O!"

"I pretty near done you in last time, Langford. I'll make good and sure next time,—you bet!"

"Oh, shut up!" exclaimed Jim, "you're wearing your windpipe out talking."

They half pulled McGregor and half dragged him to a nearby tree, to which they tied him securely, divesting him of his knife and other articles that they considered he might feel constrained to use.

He cursed them roundly, until Jim tied Red's cravat round his mouth.

"Come on, boys! That's good enough! We don't want to take him along. If we don't hurry up, that bunch may beat us to it yet."

They reached the junction of the two roads without further adventure. Five minutes later, along came Morrison, Thompson, Deputy Chief Howden and Blair, with one more—an unrecognised—in their company.

"What did you catch?" asked Jim.

"Just little Stitchy Summers!" replied Howden. "We found him out for a constitutional, hoofing it for Vernock. Says he does it every morning early for the good of his health. So we brought him along."

"We found a somnambulist, too," said Jim, "Rob Roy McGregor. We tied him up at the roadside, in case he might wake up and hurt himself."

"Foxy trick that all the same—one each way to make sure of one getting through!"

"Say!—you don't suppose they're wise?" asked Morrison.

"Sure they are!"

"But who could give the show away?"

"I'm thinking that sprained ankle of Brenchfield's was a darned lame excuse," Jim answered. And that was all they could get out of him on the subject.

It was sufficient, however, to set all of them a-wondering. But no shadow of suspicion had ever before crossed their minds, and they soon dismissed the suggestion as one more distorted ridiculous romance from the fertile brain of Jim Langford.

The whimpering Stitchy—like most of his kind; never a hero when alone—was secured in the same way as Red had been, then the men hunters continued to the top of the hill, where, as soon as dawn came up, a good view would be had of the single road as it wound, snake-like, for half a mile on the incline.

"It is five o'clock," remarked Jim. "With no mishaps, they should be here any time now."

The seven men distributed themselves in the ditches and bushes—three on one side and four on the other, at intervals of ten yards, covering a distance of seventy yards in all.

As they lay there in the ditches by the roadside, the early morning air bit sharp and chilly, having a touch of frost in it—the harbinger of colder weather to come—but still retaining a dampness that searched into the marrow.

A grey light was just beginning to spear the darkness on the top of Blue Nose Mountain away to the east. A heavy blanket of cold fog completely enveloped the low-lying lands. Suddenly, the dark leaden sky seemed to break up into ten thousand sections of gloomy puff-clouds, all sailing hap-hazard inside a dome of the lightest, brightest blue. The sun, cold to look at but shining with the light of a blazing ball, rode up over the hills, sending great shafts of searchlight down the sides of the hills and filling the ghostly valley below, with its tightly-packed firs and skeleton-like pine trees, with a warm, yellow mist, suggestive of luminous smoke rising from some fairy cauldron of molten gold; transforming the dead, chilly night into a crisp, living, moving, late-autumn morning.

As the mists completely melted away, Jim signalled to Phil and Phil repeated to McLean. The sign was passed along the other side as well.

Away down the roadway, at the turn between the low-lying hills, a heavy team appeared, struggling in front of a great wagon, piled high with produce of some kind. Another came into view, and still another, until eight of them, following closely on one another, crept along in what seemed to be a caterpillar movement.

As they came unsuspectingly onward, the drivers urging their horses—cheerful in the knowledge that the worst of their journey was successfully over—the silent watchers crept closer to cover, fearful that the brightening day would betray their whereabouts. But nothing untoward happened, except that a closer view of the oncomers gave out the fact that every wagon was loaded high with alfalfa, while what were looked for were wagon-loads of flour and feed.

McLean wormed his way past Phil and along to Jim.

"Dommit,—we're fooled!" he whispered angrily.

"Deevil the fool! Get back, Mack,—get back!"

"But it's alfalfa they've got. You canna risk holding them up when maybe the bunch we're after are comin' along hauf a mile ahin'."

Jim bit his lip. This was something he had not reckoned on.

All at once his knowledge of Scottish History came to his aid.

"Something tells me they're the crowd we're after," he answered in a low voice. "And we've got them—every mother's son o' them. Lord sake, Mack! I'm surprised at ye. You a Scot and you canna remember the takin' o' Linlithgow Castle! What was under the hay-carts then, laddie?—what? but good, trusty highlanders. And what's under the alfalfa now but good feed and flour that'll show in your next Profit and Loss Account in red figures if you don't recover it. It's a fine trick, but it is too thin.

"Go back! Signal the others to hold them up at all costs."

And McLean went back, bewildered but as nearly convinced as a Scot can be who has not the logical proof right under his nose.

Slowly the teams came straggling up the incline, coming nearer and nearer the men in ambush, until the latter could see clearly that every driver was a half-breed and that every man of them had a rifle across his knees. When they were well within the line, the preconcerted signal—Howden's rifle—rang out.

Taking chances, the deputy chief sprang out into the centre of the road and shouted, covering the leader. Three men on one side and three on the other sprang up and covered six of the drivers.

Some of the half-breeds immediately threw up their hands, taken completely by surprise. But a shot, fired by one of the uncovered drivers, sang out and big McLean dropped with a bullet through his thigh.

Howden sprang on to the first wagon, knocked the driver over, kicked his rifle aside and climbed right on top of the load, bringing down the man who shot McLean as neatly as could be with his revolver.

That ended what little fight there was in the gang. The half-breeds had no chance, with their horses getting excited and their heavy loads beginning to back on them down-hill.

In a short time, they were all unarmed and secured. McLean and the wounded half-breed were made comfortable on top of some alfalfa, the other seven drivers were set in front of their wagons, under guard, and the entire outfit was soon making its return trip to Vernock.

"Cheer up, Mack!" shouted Jim, by way of heartening.

"Tell me," groaned McLean, "what is under the alfalfa?"

"Just what I told you already, Mack,—good honest flour and feed in one hundred pound sacks, which will help to swell the credit side of your next balance sheet."

"The Lord be thankit!" he groaned. "But I wish one of them had been loaded up with King George's Special."

Jim shot out his tongue.

"Me too!" he answered pawkily.

They had not got very far on their journey, when a lone horseman came dashing toward them over the hill from the direction of Vernock.

It was Chief Palmer. His horse was in a lather and the Chief looked as if he had ridden hard and had been out all night to boot. He wore a crestfallen expression when he drew up alongside.

"Hullo!" he cried, with an assumption of gaiety. "Holding up the quiet farmer on the public highway? Captured the gang, eh?"

Immensely proud of himself and his achievement, Howden jumped down, intending to give his chief a full account of the capture, but Palmer seemed in no mood to listen, and told him he had better keep his story for later on, and look after his prisoners.

"You don't seem particularly gay over it, Chief!" commented Jim.

"Why should I?" he replied. "I've ridden for two hours, hoping to be in time for the scrap, and you fellows beat me to it."

The journey townward continued.

When nearing their destination, they were joined by two more horsemen, Brenchfield—his left foot heavily bound round the ankle—and one of his white ranch hands. The Mayor was surly as usual and seemed in desperation to get in touch with Chief Palmer, who obligingly dropped behind with him. As they brought up the rear, they indulged in a very earnest conversation.

When the wagons were safely harboured in the Police Yard and the thieves safely jailed under lock and key, the Chief, as if to make amends for his previous surliness, shook hands all round and congratulated the men on their coup.

"This will help to make an interesting calendar for the next Assizes, boys. I'll be after all of you for witnesses, so don't get on the rampage anywhere in between times."

"I guess, Morrison, old chap," broke in Brenchfield, "this will end the flour and feed racket for some time to come. We fellows will have a chance to make a little profit out of our businesses at last."

"Oh, you haven't much to worry over," replied Morrison. "You haven't all your eggs in one basket like I have. It is just pin-money for you, but it means bread and butter and bed for me and mine."

Brenchfield steered his horse alongside and laid his hand sympathetically on the old man's shoulder.

"Never mind, Morrison! It is all over now,—so here's to better days."

Morrison was not very responsive, and the Mayor excused himself on the plea of his ankle, his want of sleep and the further pressure of mayoral business.

"Darn it!" exclaimed Morrison to Jim and Phil, as he left them at the end of the avenue, "I used to like Brenchfield, but I don't know what's come over me lately with him. When he laid his hand on me a few minutes ago, I felt as if a wet toad was squatting on the back of my neck."

When they reached home, Jim did not go to his own room immediately. He followed into Phil's and sat down on the edge of the bed as Phil commenced to get out of his clothes preparatory to having a bath.

"Well!—what did you think of it, Phil?" he asked, glad, evidently, to be alone with his comrade where he could at last express his thoughts and pent-up feelings freely.

"Pretty work!"

"What?"

"I said I thought it was pretty work. We did a clean job;—got all we went out for."

"Like the devil we did!" shot out Jim.

"Why!—what did we forget, grouchy?"

"Everything! They're too blamed wise for us, that bunch, and they're too many."

Phil stopped pulling off a sock and looked over at Jim.

"Aw, come off!" cried the other. "Let in the daylight, man! What did we get anyway?"

"We got the thieves, didn't we?"

"Not by a jugfull! Half a dozen half-breed teamsters,—that's all!"

"Armed and driving stolen goods!"

"Yes! I grant that, but what good is that going to do?"

"Well, Jim,—you've discovered the plan they have been operating for doing away with the stuff. That is something."

"Sure!—that too, and it will end the wholesale thieving for a bit, till they find another way. It will give poor old Morrison a chance to recoup."

"Then I guess you always expect too much, Jim. You're never contented."

"Why should I be;—with Brenchfield's foreman and head-boss rotter Red McGregor, and that sneaky little devil Stitchy Summers not among the casualties."

"But Palmer will get them, won't he?"

"Not on your life!"

"Why not? We stopped each of them making for the gang to warn them off."

"How are we to prove that? They might have been going anywhere. Why man!—that pair could pretty nearly nail us for unprovoked assault."

Phil laughed.

"And they were the men who were conducting the entire steal when I fell in among them in the cellar;—but I can't prove it."

"You're sure they were, Jim?"

"Of course I'm sure. Red hit me on the head with the butt-end of his quirt. I'll get him one for it too, before I'm done."

"And they engineered the whole affair, set the teamsters on their journey, then beat it ahead for Redmans?"

"'Oh noble judge! O excellent young man,'" Jim quoted sarcastically.

Phil felt the thrust. He went over to the bed, tilted up Jim's chin with his forefinger and looked straight into his mischievous eyes.

"Seeing you know so much, Jim Langford,—tell me more. What side is Brenchfield on in this affair?"

Jim grew serious all of a sudden.

"Now you're talking!" he exclaimed, his eyes snapping angrily and his voice throwing fire. "I've had no darned use for that son-of-a-gun for some considerable time. He has his nose in everything. He pretty nearly bosses the whole Valley. He's political boss, Mayor, rancher, and God knows what else. If he isn't crooked, why does he have his biggest ranch right in the thick of that Indian settlement? He has the whole of the breeds on the reservation under his thumb. He's a party heeler, a grafter from away back, and everybody falls for him. And yet,—good Land!—if you did so much as open your mouth against him, you'd get run out of town."

"Go on! Go on!" applauded Phil. "I like to hear you."

"Yes!—and you've got the biggest grudge against him of any for something or other, or I'm not Wayward Langford. But you're so darned tight about it."

Phil's applause ended abruptly.

"Thought that would stop you!" grinned Jim. "But that man, and the blindness of the so-called wise men of this wee burg make me positively sick in the stomach.

"Who's at the back of the whole feed steal?—Brenchfield! Half-breeds didn't make that tunnel. It is a white man's job all through. It was all nicely done. Oh, ay! A tunnel to the three warehouses, Brenchfield's included! Thieving right and left and Brenchfield always losing a bit—to himself—every time; just to keep up appearances; and getting richer and richer every theft until he owns about as much land and gear as Royce Pederstone does!"

"Well then, Jim;—why can't that fertile brain of yours devise something to land him on this?"

"Weel ye may ask!" answered Jim, breaking into the Doric, "and I canna answer ye.

"We can't prove a thing on him. He would plead absolute ignorance of the entire affair; that he had been away for weeks and only got in yesterday with Royce Pederstone, and was at the dance when it happened. Everybody would believe him and sympathise with him too because of an apparent endeavour to blacken the character of a public man, a prominent citizen and a local benefactor—one who himself had lost so much by the thefts—for, mark you, Brenchfield has made much of it in his conversations."

"Can't Chief Palmer make the half-breeds talk? They will surely be pretty sore over the raw deal that has been handed out to them."

"Palmer be jiggered! He is another of Brenchfield's cronies, and is feathering his nest like the rest of them. I'll be very much surprised if the innocent Howden isn't fired by this time for his share in this morning's work. I'm half sorry I dragged him into it."

"Couldn't a good lawyer wriggle something out of the Indians at the trial?"

"He might,—but the Indians will be darned well paid to keep their mouths shut. Believe me!—it'll fizzle out. You watch and see!"

Jim sat quiet for a bit, then he began again.

"And that kind of animal has the nerve to want to marry little Eilie Pederstone. Oh, hell!—I'd better stop or I'll burst a blood-vessel or something.

"Say!"

"Speak on!"

"Are you going to work after breakfast?"

"Of course!" answered Phil. "Aren't you?"

"No!"

"Are you going to bed?"

"Not yet! This is Saturday morning, man. My usual monthly 'Penny Horrible' is only half finished and it has to be ready before mail time."

Phil laughed.

"What is the name of it this month, Jim?"

"'Two Fingered Pete's Come-back, a Backwoods Mystery.'"

"Sounds exciting!" remarked Phil. "I think I would like to read that one. Save a copy for me, Jim, when it comes along."

"De'il the fear! It'll never be said that Jim Langford, alias Captain Mayne Plunkett, alias Aunt Christina, ever put anything your way that would fire you, in your rashness, to disgrace me and make a fool of yourself."

Jim changed the subject again.

"Phil, why don't you cut that bluffer, Brenchfield, out?"

"Me? What harm have I done, Jim?"

"That'll do, laddie. You can't brazen it out that way. Man, I'd give my wee pinkie to see it happen."

"Oh, don't talk rot!" returned Phil, serious as an owl, nevertheless pale at the lips. "What chance has an impecunious day-labourer like me with Miss Pederstone?

"Why don't you try yourself? You're mighty good at arranging things for your friends."

Jim laughed.

Phil turned his head and glared at him; and Jim laughed more uproariously.

"What are you yelling your Tom-fool head off for? I don't see anything funny about the proposition."

"What? You can't see anything funny in it? Gee, Phil!—but you're dull. Eileen Pederstone hitched to Wayward Langford, booze fighter, ne'er-do-weel, good-for-nothing, never-worked-and-never-will; a-penny-a-liner; Aunt Christina and Captain Mayne Plunkett!"

He became sober again.

"Man, Phil!—I'm ashamed of you even suggesting it. I once fell in love. Don't get anxious; it was a long time ago when I had ambitions of becoming Lord Chief Justice, or at least a High Court Judge."

"Yes!"

"The lady and I fell out over her father. He asked me one night how much money I had in the bank. I was eighteen.

"I told him I had twenty pounds.

"'Tuts, tuts!' said the old fellow, who was one of those human fireworks—all fizzle and flare,—'that isn't enough to keep a cat.'

"'We know it,' I answered, speaking for both of us, 'but we thought we might manage to run along for a while without the cat.'"

Phil laughed.

"The old chapie got angry, and the girl sacked me because I was rude to papa and flippant about the most serious thing in the world—marriage. She couldn't see the joke. Imagine, Phil, being married to a woman that couldn't see a joke!

"That was the very nearest I ever got. And believe me——!

"Now you, for instance; you're different, you're just made for married life; you're young, big, handsome, mannerly, sober, sometimes diligent, ambitious. You don't smoke much, you don't swear—not all the time—and you can chop wood and brush your own boots. You——"

But Jim got no further. A cushion, well aimed, stopped his flow of talk.

"All right, all right! We'll say no more. Go and have your bath! You need it. Give your soul a touch o' soap and water when you are at it."



CHAPTER XV

Sol's Matrimonial Mix-Up

For the few days following, the robbery and the rounding-up of the thieves were the talk of the district; but despite this, it was surprising how little The Vernock and District Advertiser had to say about it.