"Mebbe not," replied Landy. "We are aimin' to bring back that little

hoss, en he may not want to come."

Landy turned from the path and rode down a coulee that led to Brushy

Fork. It was a winding way through brush and stunted hemlocks.

Presently they came to the creek. "Thar's Steelheads en Rainbows up in

them pools," said the leader. "These streams have been stocked en

hit's good fishin', if ye know how."

They followed down the stream bed for a distance and then Landy turned

up a draw on the left bank, that finally led out to level land. At

first it was a narrow way between the stream and foothill, but

presently the landscape broadened to a meadow similar to that on the

right bank of the creek. At one place, where the way was narrow, there

was the crumbling remnant of rough walls of rock.

"That's a relic of them ole wars in here, but I never could git the

hang of the tale. Ole Jim Lough knows all about it but he's too

shut-mouthed and contrary to tell the tale.

"Ye see, I'm not a native son," explained Landy, as they rode abreast

on the widened road. "I got started in the cattle game over to the

north on Crazy Woman Creek en the range betwixt that en Sun Dance on

the Belle Fourche. I was romancin' round when Teddy Roosevelt made

camp up thar. Teddy liked to listen in on some of them Paul Bunyans of

the cattle game, en they shore told some tall ones. I think he

encouraged 'em in their romancin' jist to git a line on their

capacity. Ye see, we were located jist betwixt ole Fort Fetterman and

the Little Big Horn, sorta betwixt Red Cloud en Sittin' Bull, en one

massacre en another. Ours was a period jist follerin' these

history-makin' times en every man had a right to tell hit his way as

they were all unhampered by airy lick of facts.

"Therefore, I didn't git up here in the headwaters of the Platte until

years after, but from what I ketch they had some right stirrin' time

in here, 'twixt cattle rustlin' and sheep crowdin'. Ole Jim knows the

whole story, but he don't broadcast none." Topping a swell of the

meadow lands another stream basin was encountered. "Hit's a little

Ranty," explained Landy. "That's a dam downstream aways en the B-line

waters a couple o' hundred acres." In these meadows there were

cattle--cows and calves and some scrub yearlings. Crossing the Ranty,

the horsemen mounted to the levels again. Here, there were fences.

Farther on, stables, sheds, and a cluster of houses. The B-line ranch.

Landy maneuvered the horses through the gates without dismounting and

rode up to the central stable. "Whar's yer reception committee eround

here?" he yelled. "Call out the guard en parade them colors," he

commanded as he dismounted and assisted Davy down. He threw the reins

over the horses' heads. A man came out of the stable-room, two more

came from back of a shed.

"Well, if it haint the ole buzzard from Ripple Creek, a sailin' around

lookin' fer his dinner. Nothin' dead around here Landy," said the

short, stubby man that came from the stable room.

"Howdy, Potter. 'Lo, Flinthead. Howdy, Hickory. All you cimarrons

wipe yer hands real clean en shake with my friend Mister Lannarck. We

jist took time outen our busy lives to come over here en watch you

birds loaf eround," said Landy after introductions had been

acknowledged. "En my pardner here has a broken handled knife that he

would trade for a little hoss."

"Well, it's a shame, Mister Lannarck," said Potter thoughtfully, "that

ye have to carry sich a load as bein' introduced by sich a

double-barreled, disreputable ole renegade of a crook like this. But

we understand and will try to he'p ye live it down. Now, as to that

little hoss. He belongs to Miss Adine. She's at the house. Flinthead,

you move them hosses in here! Hickory, go tell Adine that the circus

party that Landy told her about is here to see the colt."

Both men set about their tasks. Flinthead led out a horse, mounted and

rode down a lane, propping the gates open as he went. From a corral

back of the stables came a drove of horses, mares, colts, and

yearlings. Trotting, prancing, and snorting as they came down the

lane, they settled down once they were in the stable lot.

Davy was between two fires. He sought a safe place from being run down

by the drove and yet he wanted to catch a glimpse of any kind of horse

suitable to his size. He noted plenty of small ones but their short,

bushy tails revealed colthood. The others were too large. As the drove

settled down a colt came from out the center of the milling herd and

walked up to Potter, extending his muzzle as if expecting something.

"That's the one!" said Dave excitedly.

He was a red sorrel with three white feet and legs and a flaxen mane

and tail. Experts in such matters would have said he was nearly eleven

hands high. Unlike his pony prototypes, his was a lengthy, arched

neck, held high from narrowing withers and a short back. He was dirty.

His mane and tail needed attention. Potter put out his hand. The colt

walked near enough that he placed his arm over his neck and led him

to a post where a rope dangled. This, he secured around the colt's

neck.

"Good morning, everybody."

The colt parley was thus interrupted. Landy's several gallon headpiece

was off and he nearly swept the ground with it. "Why, howdy, Miss

Adine. We was a-lookin' this little hoss over to see if he'd fit a

pattern. Meet Mister Lannarck here. He's the pattern."

"My name is Lannarck all right," said Davy, acknowledging the abrupt

introduction. "But among homefolks, I would rather be called Davy, as

I have always been sceptical of anyone calling me Mister, afraid he

would want to sell me something I didn't want."

The girl laughed. "I am troubled that way myself. If anyone calls me

Miss Lough, I pay no attention, thinking they mean someone else. Won't

you men come to the house? Father is in Omaha on business and Mother

and I are changing things around for the winter. Grandaddy picked out

this busy time for one of his visits, so we are all together. Grandad

will want to see you Landy, so come up to the house. I want to tell

you about that colt, and tell you why it is that I am not to sell

him."

There was little else for the mystified Landy and the now, heartbroken

midget to do but to follow along, through the gate and along the

well-kept bordered path to the immense porch. They loitered at the

gate for parley.

"... and he's the handsomest horse I ever saw," complained the little

man, "and she said she was not to sell him. I suppose it's some

parental promise she's made, or some skin-game buyer has been through

here and threw a wrench in the gears. Why, Landy, this is a

high-school horse! He's showy, fine color, fancy markings and anyone

can see that he's smart. We've just got to work it out somehow. A

high-school horse, pony size, he's worth a thousand."

"Well, I ain't up on school classifications for hosses," said Landy

dryly. "He may be a colleger fer all I know. But, we're dealin' with

a woman en thar's no accountin' fer what's the matter. Hit may be, yer

complexion don't match, er she may be a-keepin' him to contrast with

some letter paper she's goin' to buy. Ye jist can't tell a dern thing

about hit till we hear her story. After that, well, we can tell if

it's worthwhile to go on with the struggle."

When first introduced, Davy was certain that Miss Adine Lough was

about the handsomest girl he had ever seen. Surely not more than

twenty years of age, of medium height, a peach complexion, tanned a

little but fair to look at. She stood on the Colonial porch of the big

Lough homestead, her hands in the pockets of her black horse-hide

jacket awaiting the arrival of her reluctant guests.

She ushered the two into the wide hallway. "You had better see

Grandaddy first, Landy, he's camped in here by the fire. Then we'll go

in the library and talk over our business."

Jim Lough, ancient Nestor of the North Park district, was seated in a

big Morris-chair in front of the smouldering fire. "Well, if it ain't

ole Turkeyneck in person," he called in a high falsetto voice, as the

two entered. "I've been wantin' to see you, Landy. I told the sheriff

to bring you over the next time he had you in charge. I want to find

somebody that can sing 'The Cowboy's Lament' and sing it right, as I

am plannin' a funeral party and I want to work out all the details.

Can you sing 'The Lament' so it's fitten to hear?"

"Yer dern tootin' I can sing 'The Lament'," retorted Landy, "all

forty-four verses of hit, en the chorus betwixt every verse. I'm a

prima donna when it comes to singin' that ole favorite. I learned it

off a master-singer, ole Anse Peters, up in God's country whar men are

men--en the women are glad of it. But what's led ye off on that wagon

track, Jim? Why don't ye git a saxophone en tune in on some jazz? Be

modern, like the rest of us fellers. Here you are, slouchin' around

without a dressin' jacket er slippers en talkin' 'bout an ole song

that's in the discard. Shame on ye! But before ye apologize, meet my

friend here, Mister Lannarck, lightweight circus man, who's visitin'

us here en lookin' around for relics en sich. That's why I brought him

over."

Old Jim took the extended hand of the little man and held it while he

talked. "Thar's been a lot of people had their necks stretched up in

this deestrict for being caught in bad company, young man. You're

borderin' on that condition right now in runnin' around with ole

turkeyneck here. If the Vigilance Committee finds it out, you are a

goner.

"Circus man, hey? I mind the time when a lot of us fellers rode to

Cheyenne to see Barnum. Last man in had to pay all bills--it was some

pay, by the time we got through. We saw the show all right and we saw

Barnum. He was a fine man. But circus er no circus, ye ain't a goin'

to sidetrack me out'n them funeral arrangements. If ye can sing 'The

Lament,' yer engaged."

"Why, who's dead, Jim?" asked Landy innocently. "Did ole Selim die, er

is hit yer favorite hound dawg?"

"None sich," replied the old man heatedly. "It's me--my funeral--en

I'm aimin' to make a splendid time outen it. The boys on hosses,

firin' salutes as they see it, a preacher sharp to give it dignity, en

the 'Cowboy's Lament,' as sung by ole Landy Spencer. That's a fitten

program, en you are engaged fer the job."

"En about when do ye plan to stage this splendid event?" drawled

Landy.

"Why, when I die, ye idiot, mebbe now, mebbe later, jist whenever I

bed down fer the last time. Here I am, over ninety years old. I can't

go on livin'! It's agin nature. I want to make ready when it comes.

I'm ready and I want everything else to be jist as ready as I am."

Landy Spencer drummed his knotty fingers on the armchair and looked

thoughtfully at the old Nestor seated at his fireside. Ninety years

old! Seventy years of activity in a territory where activity was

enforced, if one were to live. Strange stories, legends now, were told

of the doings of this gaunt, eagle-beaked, shaggy-browed old man who

now, chatted complacently of death. Very true, none living was able to

verify them. Those who had passed on told only fragments, and Jim

Lough, neither verified nor denied.

One legend persisted. Landy had heard it long before coming to the

district. It related to the beginning days of the great cattle game of

the grasslands--days before the coming of the vast herds and the

problems they brought. It concerned the destinies of those who

followed fast in the footsteps of the trailmakers and sought to

establish a business where there was neither law nor precedent. Sordid

days, these. The honest men were not yet organized; the dishonest and

criminal were unrestrained by laws. Cattle and kine were taken

furtively or openly to these very hills and vales where Jim Lough now

lived in quietude and peace. Here they were held until a sufficient

number was collected for the drive to the marches and markets that lay

east of the Virginia Dale.

Jim Lough was a youngster then, without ownership of herds or home,

but he was not content to see the weak and unorganized robbed, without

recourse. Alone, he made trips over the forbidden trails to the places

of the illicit exchange; then back to the grasslands again he

organized a posse of five and laid his trap. In a narrow pass this

robber band was successfully ambushed and by effective gunfire,

reduced from eight to three. The three surrendered. By every rule of

the game, in a new land where there was neither law, nor courts nor

sheriffs, the culprits must be hung, and hung on the spot where

apprehended. But to this Jim Lough demurred. "We'll swing 'em where it

counts," he announced grimly, and the cavalcade set out on the

two-days' journey to the Skeel's cabin, the reputed hangout of the

lawless and criminals of the new country. The posse found the cabin

deserted, except for the presence of a lame, old man who was reported

as the cook for the outfit. He was loaded on a horse and headed

northward out of the country. The rest of the livestock was turned

from the corrals and the cabin and stables set afire. Then, as a

fitting finish to the work of the hour, the three culprits were hung

on extended limbs of trees bordering the ruins.

"Now the skunks will have something to look at when they come back

here to plan their stealing," Jim Lough had said as the posse

dispersed.

But "the skunks" never came back, and through the long winter and most

of the following summer the ghastly mementos of early justice swayed

and swung, until the ravens and winds made merciful disposition of the

bodies.

In the next few years there was peace in the grasslands, and the

settlers prospered as others joined. But it was not always so. For

with more settlers came greed and avarice. Laws were made, regulations

were had, rules announced and they were not always fair. Greed,

sometimes sat in the councils, and the avaricious bent the rules.

Then, there were other wars in which justice and fairness ran not

parallel with Greed-made law.

Grassland remembered young Jim Lough and his stern and speedy methods

and now as an older man, he was often called to council and to lead.

But the problems were not of easy solution; the 'right side' of the

controversy was not always obvious, but under Jim Lough's leadership

the greedy must surrender self-appropriated water holes, odious fences

were banished and grazing allotments went to the needy as well as the

greedy. In these things, Jim Lough made enemies as well as friends,

but cared as little for the one as he appreciated the other.

Landy Spencer, drummed knotty fingers on the arm of his chair as he

listened to Jim Lough's explanations of his arrangements for a

splendid funeral. At last he spoke. "Jim, I used to think that ye'd

make a fine gov'ner. I know ye make a dandy good district marshal,

but ye are slippin'--goin' addled 'bout this funeral business.

A-settin' here tryin' to run things en you deceased, that-a-way. Ye

know, well en' good, that the folks livin' will take charge of them

obsequies; hit'll be about ten years from now, I figger; en yore plans

will fit in about like a last-year's birdnest. Ye have jist about as

much to do a-bossin' that party as ye'll have in selectin' yer harp en

halo when ye git inside the pearly gates. Ten years from now, thar

won't be a cow hand ner a gun outside a dude ranch er a rodeo. Singin'

'The Lament' would be about as well understood as recitin' a Latin

epic."

"Pshaw, Jim, yer wastin' valuable time," said Landy, wanting to get a

last word, before the old man had time for a reply. "Come over next

week--Alice is to have a turkey dinner with all the fixin's--en we'll

plan a funeral that's modern. Aryplanes, automobiles, jazz, en dancin'

en sich. That's the kind I'm plannin' en I ort to kick-in long before

you do."

Landy backed out and crossed the hallway before the ancient could

reply.

6

Adine Lough ushered her guests across the hall into what seemed to be

her workshop. Seated around a library table, Davy perched on a big

dictionary, Landy at the end, drumming his fingers as usual, the girl

plunged at once into the business at hand.

"At the very start," she said in a serious manner, "I must tell some

personal things. I've been going to school at Boulder. I am staying

out this semester to work on my graduate thesis, 'Social Work in Rural

Communities.' When you consider my restricted field, it's a big job.

But I like that kind of work--studying people, their individualities,

their shortcomings, their accomplishments. From what I hear of you,

David, you have an aversion for those things--in fact have run away

from the mob. I like it. I would want nothing better than to stand

along side of you on a platform at the circus opening and watch the

general populace pass in review. Then and there, I could study all

phases of humanity; classify them as they passed; and then investigate

each case personally to see if I had made the right appraisals at

first sight."

"--And right there is where you would miss the trapeze bar by a foot,

and no net under you," interrupted Davy disgustedly. "They are all

alike, from Bangor to Los Angeles. You can throw 'em all into one of

two groups: yokels and shilabers. They are either out with a skin game

or else they are goats, about to lose their hide."

Adine laughed. "Oh, you surely could subdivide the Yokels. Why in my

observations they alone, could be classified under many heads. But to

go on with my story. Adot, the town, and the neighboring ranches, is

my limited field of research and I have gone over the field in detail.

Last month, I had up the matter of the Methodist church in Adot. It

was a-once-a-month affair, the minister living in Weldon and no chance

to ride circuit in the winter months. No budget, no money, and worse,

yet, no outlook.

"Now, I didn't go into the matter to do church work and help them; my

business was to appraise them as they were; but I got involved. The

few members thought I was trying to do a bit of missionary work. The

upshot of the affair was, that I found myself with a roster of the

church membership and a list of names of nearly everybody else. I had

my own figures as to needs, debts, and community possibilities. So,

carrying the thing to a finish, I took up the matter of putting them

on a budget and providing the funds.

"First I made them elect Brother Peyton treasurer. He wasn't doing

anything except waiting for the bank to resume business. Then I

canvassed all the names on the rosters and combed the neighboring

ranches for small monthly contributions. I got enough subscriptions to

pay the minister and paint the church house. But it was some job. It

took two weeks. Two weeks of joy and rebuffs, of elations and disgust.

I was tired. I planned to rest up a couple of weeks and wait for my

halo, or wings, or whatever a Christian gets for doing his whole duty;

when right on the heels of my labors, came the greatest catastrophe

that could have happened."

"Did the meetin' house burn down?" interrupted Landy, who had followed

the recitals intently. "Did the preacher gent die, er did Brother

Peyton jump the game, taking the jackpot with him?"

"No, nothing like that. The Nazarenes moved in! You both know about

the Nazarenes?"

Davy did. He had noticed their meetings in cities. But with Landy, the

subject was a blank page and he withheld comment. In later months he

confessed that he thought that the Lough gal was nuts in tryin' to

project the Saviour en some of his kin onto Adot.

"The Nazarenes are new in this country," continued the girl, "and they

have all the enthusiasm of the new convert. Really, they seem to have

the early zeal that some of the churches have lost. And they are a

stubborn lot. That the field seems barren, is nothing to them. They

set up shop in a desert and carry on just the same. To them, poverty

is an asset. Christ's admonition to the rich man, to give his

substance away and follow Him, is a literal command to be obeyed.

"In the week following my campaign for the Methodist, two Nazarenes, a

young man and his wife, came barging into Adot and set up for

business. She took up cooking and waiting table in Jode's restaurant

for their board, and he went about the street preaching and about the

house praying, day and night. They were both good singers and he

played an accordion. In that week they talked Joe Burns into letting

them have the use of the old mercantile warehouse, and they set up

meetings in that big, barn of a place. That same week they came out

here, in a truck they had borrowed, to get me to help them as I had

the Methodists.

"Well, of all things, you just cannot say 'no' to such people. Why, I

almost insulted them; told them Adot was a barren field, overworked

and already supplied with their spiritual needs. But I failed to

impress them. They even wanted to pray for me. Me, who thought I was

already sainted for my work with the Methodists! Then I went on

another tack; I explained that I had already exhausted my resources in

my work with others; that I had canvassed everyone and could not,

consistently, go over the field asking for subscriptions for another

organization. That failed. They insisted that they wanted only a

start, just a little influence; and that I should come and assist them

some night!

"They trapped me. To get rid of them, I half-way promised to aid in

some sort of an entertainment to help them get their first money;

after that, they were to be on their own resources. And while I was

berating myself and wondering how to get out of it, or how to get in

it, Landy here came with the news that a little showman was to visit

us here on the plateau and that he wanted a horse. Right then and

there the clouds lifted; the problem was solved."

Adine let her voice fall, pushed her chair back from the conference

table and folded her arms. Landy drummed on the table and looked

thoughtful. Davy wiggled around on his high perch and nearly fell off

the dictionary.

"Well, that's a fine story, Miss Adine, and well told, but I don't get

the connection as to why you are not to sell the little horse."

The girl laughed. "Sure, I will not sell him, but I'll trade him.

Trade him for that entertainment that I promised those impractical and

improvident Nazarenes."

"Do you mean that me and Landy here must put on some sort of a show in

Adot? Why--why, I don't know a soul here. I know nothing of the

community's talent. Surely I am not a church entertainer; my dances

and songs won't fit into a church entertainment. You can't preach or

exhort, can you Landy?" asked Davy anxiously. "We've just got to have

that horse. I will agree to go over to Adot and stand on my head, in

some show-window if that gets him. But you wouldn't want to sponsor

that kind of entertainment," the little man appealed to Adine. "What's

needed is something half-way refined and where the patron would get

his money's worth. And I can't produce that kind of a show."

"Oh, yes, you can," said Adine smiling, "and the patron would get his

money's worth. Why you, yourself know that little people--or what

shall I call them?"

"Midgets," interposed Davy, "midgets is our classification, not

dwarfs, nor gnomes, nor half-pints, just midgets."

"Thanks, that helps, and you see how little I know about it and how

anxious I am to learn. Well, midgets, as a class are attractive and a

rarity too. Except for yourself, I do not know of another. People want

to see them. They go to circuses and theaters just to see little

people. I have no doubt, that in many cases, people are

ill-mannered--stare and giggle--and say uncalled for things, but

that's to be expected from the run of persons, yet the fact remains,

midgets are attractive.

"Now you've been before the public, know how to handle crowds and know

what they want. You could supplement your appearance with a lecture or

talk on midgets, your experience with them, and something of your

travels with the circus and with the troopers of the theater. Why,

it's just what the public wants."

"That little hoss is sold," said Landy exultantly. "One speech fer one

hoss. Fair enough!"

"Now you hold on, Landy," Davy interrupted. "You are getting me out in

deep water and no oars. I am a good Presbyterian all right, but they

wouldn't stand for my stuff in their church and these Nazarenes surely

have the same standards of propriety. Now, Miss Adine, let me give you

fifty or a hundred dollars for this colt and you give that to these

needy Christians."

"And leave me out as a promoter! Not much! Why, I want to see this

show myself. I wouldn't miss it for anything."

"Ner me," cried Landy in much glee. "Why me en Potter en Flinthead en

Hickory and some of the boys from the Diamond-A, will git us front

seats and cheer yer ev'ry utt'rance. Come to think of hit, we could

hold a big afternoon parade, with a lot of yippin' around, and git up

more excitement than they've had in that sleepy ole burg since the

women swarmed down on Gatty's quart shop en wrecked hit."

"Well, you and Mr. Potter and Mr. Flinthead just keep out of it," said

Adine emphatically. "You would ruin everything."

"No just let 'em come, I've been kidded by experts and their stuff

might prove an added feature. But Adine, you had better let me hand

you the cash...."

"No, that would be a departure from what we are trying to do. The

object of the affair is publicity, not cash. And besides, the colt

isn't worth a dime to me--or anyone else but you. He's too little for

anyone to ride, and he ought to be trained and made to be useful. As

it is, he's just one in the drove and would remain so, until he died.

"But you can take him, train him, and make a beautiful show-horse out

of him. Why, I can see you riding, parading, and having him doing

stunts such as are rarely seen in a circus.

"Now I want you to ride him home today. The trade is made. You have

the horse and are obligated to give an entertainment for the Nazarenes

in Adot. I think we can arrange it for next Saturday night week. The

little weekly newspaper, the _Adot Avalanche_, comes out Thursday. I

will run a display ad that a famous Midget and circus performer will

give a lecture at the warehouse Saturday night under the auspices of

the Nazarenes. The little paper goes all over the district and the

town won't hold the people. It will be Adot's premier event.

"So you come over here Saturday morning, Davy," continued Adine, "we

will drive over to Adot in the afternoon in my roadster. We'll lay the

top back and drive over the town so the public will know that you are

there in person! It will be Adot's biggest day."

Landy had been ready to get back to the stables for some time. He was

standing, twirling his ancient headpiece, awaiting the word to start.

In all his years of dealing in horseflesh, this trade interested him

deeply. He wanted his little friend to have that horse.

As the three walked down the path to the stables, Adine was insistent

that Davy should ride the colt home. "He's not a range horse," she

explained, "not a westerner, as they sometimes describe horses that

are out of a drove. This colt doesn't need to be broken. He was sired

by our Allan-a-Dale, a registered saddle horse; his mother is Janie,

that I used to ride barebacked and without a bridle. He was her last

colt and will be three years old this month."

Davy was just a little skeptical about attempting his first riding of

the colt in company. He would much rather have him over on his own

range with no other company but Landy. He wondered, as they walked

along, if Potter and the boys at the stables had framed a rodeo

spectacle for themselves and were to witness some worm-fence bucking

by midget contestants. He was much relieved as Landy took charge,

transferred the saddle from lofty Frosty to the diminutive colt,

fitted the cinches and shortened the stirrup leathers to what he

thought was about the right length. Then he slipped the bit in the

colt's mouth and took up the cheek leathers of the bridle. Before Davy

realized what was going on, Landy had lifted him to the saddle,

mounted Gravy, clucked to Frosty and the procession moved out the

gate.

"I'll see you all in Adot, Saturday," called Davy without turning his

head.

"Good luck and bon voyage," called Adine.

7

On the way down to the Ranty, the colt behaved remarkably well. He

followed closely in the wake of Frosty, occasionally shaking his head

in an effort to throw the bit from his mouth. At the ford, Landy

adjusted the bridle so as to withdraw the bit and allow the colt to

drink his fill.

It was a proud moment in the varied career of David Lannarck, midget

and showman, as the little cavalcade gained the level land near

Pinnacle Point after a strenuous half-hour on the hazardous trail that

led up from Brushy Fork. He waved a cautious hand to a man and woman

standing near a car parked in front of the cabin.

Landy lifted Davy from his saddle, removed the bit from the colt's

mouth, made an improvised halter out of his bridle and tied the reins

to a sapling. The older horses were left standing with reins down.

"Well! If it ain't my ole scatter-about-friend, James Madison Stark,

in person!" cried Landy as he and Davy made their way to the car. "Now

I know that winter is not two days away. Hi, Maddy! Howdy, Mis Carter!

Must be big news in the wind, if you two hit Pinnacle Pint same time,

same day. What's up?"

"Maddy is anxious to see Mr. Welborn," Mrs. Carter replied gravely to

Landy's facetious banter, "but I don't know how to get back to where

that gas engine is chuffing. Welborn will have to come out here to

Maddy, for the hoodlums over at Grand Lake have burnt his feet and

tortured him until mind and body are a wreck."

"Tell Sam to come out here," was Landy's command to Davy. "Well,

somebody has shore mussed ye up a heap, en right in yer gaddin' about

department," he added as he noted the bandaged feet and ankles of the

old fellow. "Sandals and a crutch don't become ye at all, Oldtimer.

Who's been disturbin' yer dogs that away?"

"I got all that and a lot more, off the killer that built this cabin,"

said the oldster firmly, "and I want to warn this newcomer as to his

threats to come over here and kill him."

Welborn, accompanied by Davy, came through the arch and approached the

car. He had never seen the oldster but had heard, in full, the story

of his idiosyncrasies, his wanderings, and persistent research for the

hidden mineral wealth of a vast and varied district. In his life's

story there were no paragraphs that old Maddy was a hoarder of gold or

a promoter or exploiter of things found. His research yielded amply

for his needs. It was known that he owned the filling station and that

his summer accumulations of mineral wealth was more than sufficient to

meet the annual upkeep of that establishment. James Madison Stark's

pleasures had been the joys of solitude rather than the raptures of

vast accumulations. He preferred that the mineral wealth of earth

remain in the veins of its native rock rather than be taken out en

masse, to be later hoarded, manipulated, and juggled to create

distress and poverty and want.

Old Maddy had not reduced his life's philosophy to writing, but the

midget, David Lannarck, as he had heretofore heard the fragments of

the stories of this long and varied career, wondered if he too was not

in the same groove. His present-day problem was the life-story of the

ancient Nestor who preferred solitude to the mob; who would leave

nature's treasures to remain hidden and unclaimed, awaiting the

investigations and industry of the generations to follow. Davy gazed

in awe at the old man, who in general appearance resembled the

accepted portrayals of Santa Claus, but whose face was now seamed with

lines of pain.

Landy made hasty introductions. Maddy proceeded with the business at

hand. "I've come to warn you," he said to Welborn, "that the mobster

who built this cabin says he is going to kill you. He's been hiding

out at some of the resorts over in the Grand Lake district, but like

others of his kind, he just couldn't keep his mental cussedness hidden

and the better element over there is making it too hot for him. It's

his next move and he's evidently going to make a big jump, leaving the

state, maybe the nation. But before he goes, he swears he is coming

over here and kill the only man that ever beat him to the draw--that

ever knocked him down. So be on your guard, my friend. He's a fiend, a

maniac, and that incident preys on him."

"Well, I am certainly obliged to you for this warning," said Welborn

quietly. "If I only knew the date of his proposed visit, we would

provide him with a fitting welcome--a welcome that would add a climax

to his book of hate."

"When he's to come, or how, I don't know," Maddy replied. "It's been a

week since I heard him make the threat, then he made it twice in one

night, accompanied by all the profanity he could muster. He and his

gang were dissolving partnership on account of recent publicity. Two

of 'em would go over to Las Vegas to look over the new dam at Boulder,

one was returning to Denver and this Count Como--he has several other

names--was to come here, get his revenge, and seek another hideout."

Pressed by Landy as to how he contacted the gangsters and received his

injuries, the oldster related the story of his summer's wanderings. He

had spent some time on the other side of the Divide in the Hahns Peak

district, skirted Steamboat Springs on his way to Oak Creek. In his

wanderings, he had panned the alluvium of many small streams and had

recovered more than the usual amount of gold. Now he would work his

way back home through the Middle Park and cross the tortuous windings

of the Divide by the way of his secret pass.

Approaching the Grand Lake district he encountered two men who said

they were looking for lost sheep. Both were maudlin drunk and each was

trying to impress the other with his wisdom, his repartee and

boldness. Upon Maddy's refusal to accompany them, they seized him

bodily, searched him, searched the burro to find the gold and then

pushed, dragged, and drove him and the burro to a nearby cabin.

Here, he was to encounter two other drunken fanatics whose maudlin

quarrels were interrupted by the exhibition of the pouches of gold.

Now, they would know the exact location of the find. The explanation

of the aged wanderer that the dust and particles came from many

sources, seemed to enrage them further. "Just where was this

mother-lode?" They wanted to know. "Here was wealth aplenty-enough to

buy everything."

And they applied the third degree with all the fiendish deviltries of

their distorted minds, to get the exact location of this rival of the

Comstock lode. The aged man was tied hand and foot and beaten and

abused the whole night long. In pushing splinters under his toenails,

the lamp was upset, kerosene was spilled over his feet to catch fire.

A quarrel ensued as to whether the fire should be extinguished or

allowed to burn. A fist-fight developed and they abandoned the cabin,

leaving Maddy to his fate.

"It was young Byron Goff that found me," concluded the aged narrator.

"I recognized his voice when I came to, the next day. He was looking

for lost sheep and stopped to inquire. He took me to his home,

doctored me, cared for me, and brought me home. I owe him my life, not

only for the rescue, but for his kindly nursing. Due to him, my feet

will be all right in a few days. While he would accept nothing from

Mrs. Carter, we've got a plan to part-pay him for his kindness."

The disclosures as made by Maddy, awakened much interest among the

five dwellers of Pinnacle Point. Mrs. Gillis arranged for the evening

meal at the Gillis home where plans could be made to thwart an

invader. Landy and Davy rode their horses to the Gillis barn; Welborn

and Gillis came later in the car. It was following the meal that the

problem was talked over in detail.

It was agreed by all that the invader would come in his car; there was

no other way. He would have to come to the filling station to gain the

roadway to Pinnacle Point. He would have to pass the Gillis cabin and

a warning could be phoned if a wire was strung from the Gillis home to

Welborn's cabin. But in that case the wire would have to be extended

to reach the mine as Welborn was up in that canyon during the day. Jim

proposed a fence across the road with an electric alarm on it when the

gate was opened. Landy suggested felling a tree across the road at a

narrow place and thus reduce the uses of the thoroughfare to journeys

on horseback; Davy offered to keep watch at a favorable place where he

could shoot the tires of the intruder's auto.

Welborn took but little part in the discussions. As the conversation

lagged he briefly summarized the situation. "This gangster is a killer

all right and drink and dope may have overcome the usual cautions of

the breed. All of 'em are cowards; they prefer unarmed victims that

are hog-tied. Sometime in his career this buzzard was the killer for

some liquor gang. He evidently double-crossed his associates in

getting this money that he's spending. He hides from them as well as

the law. There is little we can do except to keep alert. I'll keep my

gun with me up at the canyon and a shot through his windshield would

drive him frantic. He's liable to miss the bridge in his zeal to get

away. He will have to come in the daytime and the folks at the filling

station will warn us now that they know his intentions."

However the matter of the proposed visit of the killer had an exciting

and ludicrous interruption when, on the next morning, Mrs. Gillis

heard the labored chugging of a car coming up the hill to the east.

Landy and Davy were at the barn. They too heard the noise and saw a

small ancient roadster turn into the driveway and stop. A young man

got out of the car and came to the door. This was not the killer but

it might be news of his plans. Landy and Davy entered the house by the

back door.

"Why, it's young Goff," said Landy, interrupting the introduction. "I

met you last spring over at Rawlins. You were in a confab with some

sheep men over there."

The visitor laughed. "Yes, these Rawlins folks are big operators," the

young man explained. "I have to visit 'em about once a year to let 'em

know that I am still alive and still grazing a few head over east of

their allotment. Why, my little band isn't big enough to make up their

summer shortage. If one of their herders rambles over in my district

and there is a mixup, I could easily lose a lot of grass and some

sheep. I can't talk Spanish, and the herder says that he no savvy

'Meriky' and it's up to me to sort and claim.

"But they are a fine lot of fellows, these Rawlins operators, once

they understand that you are on the square. I visit with them every

spring when I sell my fur and pelts. Yes, I have to trap in the winter

to get enough money to pay my grazing allotment, and in my contacts

with these sheep owners, I find that they are always willing to

cooperate."

The young visitor had taken the proffered chair. Mrs. Gillis, Landy

and Davy joined to complete the half-circle. It was apparent that he

had a mission more important than reciting the details of herding and

trapping. Landy had introduced Davy as a new-comer, "Wuth a lot more

than his size would indicate."

"I came over to Carter's last evening to buy some gas and see how old

Maddy was getting along and to tell him how his friends, the

gangsters, finished their orgy. I found the oldster was doing

fine--would be fully recovered by next spring--but they wouldn't sell

me any gas." The raconteur allowed an interval for the astonishing

news to be absorbed. "No sir, not a spoonful would they sell me. They

wanted to give it to me--by the tankful. And after I told my news of

the gangster's finish and the complications incident thereto, Maddy

and the Carters insisted that I take all the gas--that I come up here

with the news, and the problem, and work out the solution.

"You see, I was over to Northgate Saturday on the matter of trading

some bucks with Andy Pelser and encountered the astonishing news that

the whole gangster mob, those that stole Maddy's dust, were in jail.

They had been arrested, and convicted, on about all the crimes in the

book. Reckless driving, drunkeness, inciting a riot, possessing stolen

property, and finally contempt of court, when they offered Judge

Withers, Maddy's two sacks of dust if he would let 'em off. On this

last charge the Judge added four months in jail. It was a grand finish

of an awful mess.

"I went over to the country seat to verify the news. It was no mere

rumor, it was a fact. Sheriff Bill White had 'em all in hock; had the

two bags of gold dust and their guns. He wants to get rid of the dust

if he can find the true owner, and get a disclaimer of ownership from

the gangsters. I told him it was Maddy's, and Bill wants Maddy to come

and prove ownership and take the property. Maddy is willing, but

there's a hitch to it. Just now, I want to see Mr. Gillis, or you

Landy, and unhitch the hitch."

"Well, Jim is up at Pinnacle Pint helpin' Welborn scrape the bottom of

the canyon fer what dust he can find, en I'm shore busy gittin' this

youngster acquainted with his new hoss," said Landy thoughtfully. "But

we ort to take time out to recover Maddy's property. Let's go up to

the canyon en sign Jim up fer the job. That dust up in the canyon

won't run away. It will still be thar even if Jim knocks off work fer

a couple a days."

The young visitor readily concurred in the plan, he wanted to see the

house that the gangster had built anyhow. He started out to the car,

but was detained by Landy. "You wait here," the veteran cautioned, "ye

might git a bullet through yer windshield if ye drive up thar

unannounced. My podner here and I will saddle up and ride ahead, to

prevent accidents."

Following his equestrian escort, the visitor presently reached the

Point where introductions were made and the purpose of the visit

explained. Jim asked many questions and for the most part the answers

were satisfactory. Really, the judge and sheriff wanted to get rid of

these malefactors if the serious charge of robbery was eliminated.

They were a burden to the state and community. "I begrudge feeding the

dirty skunks," was the sheriff's scornful comment. "Hanging 'em would

terminate expense and trouble."

But two problems hindered a quick solution; would these culprits leave

the country if given a suspended sentence. Judge Withers was giving

them a few days for reflection. Meanwhile Sheriff White was making

their stay as uncomfortable as possible in order to hasten a favorable

decision.

"What's the other problem?" asked Gillis, casually.

"Why, if the dust is recovered, old Maddy wants to give it to me, says

that I earned it. And I'm not going to take it."

During the interview, Welborn had been a quiet listener. On hearing

this last declaration from the visitor, he straightened up to make a

quick inquiry. "Why won't you take it?" he demanded.

"I haven't done anything to earn it," replied young Goff in a low but

firm tone.

There was an interval of silence.

"You see, Maddy is old," the visitor explained. "The awful experience

he's gone through affected him. He wants to contrast the little

service I gave him with what the gangsters did to him. His sentiment

outruns his judgment. I didn't do anything out of the ordinary--just

fed him and doctored him as best I could. I didn't do any more--"

"Is your mother living?" interrupted Welborn. "She must be a gentle,

thoughtful woman, well-grounded in the old fashioned ideas of kindness

in social service, to have raised a son with such ideals. People,

now-a-days, expect pay, even for their charities. You will have much

trouble and many disappointments if you approach a sordid world with

such sentiments."

"Hold on Mister," said the younger man, with much spirit. "Old Maddy's

case is different. His case was not a business transaction, it was a

duty." The young visitor ducked his head to chuckle a little while he

scraped the gravel with the toe of his shoe. "If you run into Andy

Pelser, in about a month from now, you will know what I mean. Andy is

young and bright, but old in the sheep game. I had no scruples in

giving him a good cross-lifting in that sheep trade we made. But this

Maddy case is different. I don't want pay for being neighborly, for

doing my duty to oldsters."

"Back the car out, Jim!" commanded Welborn. "This young man is

irresistible. We had as well take a day off to do our part in this

entanglement. Back the car out while I spruce up a little to meet the

law as well as the law-breakers."

Presently Welborn came out of the house, dressed as a man of business.

His attitude was as one in authority. "I have a plan in mind that

might work. It has about one chance in fifty of fitting the case, but

we'll take that chance. But we must do two things if it is to

succeed," cautioned Welborn. "We must not let the Judge see poor old

Maddy in his present plight. It would infuriate the Judge to sentence

those buzzards to the hoosegow for life. Then too, I must see this

sheriff alone, if the plan is made to work. Drive on, my boy," he said

to Goff, "and we'll try to keep in sight. See you tomorrow night,

maybe," he called to Landy and Davy as the two cars got underway.

8

A busy little man was David Lannarck in the week that followed. With a

horse to break and a speech to make, the time was fully occupied. The

colt was quartered at the Gillis barn. Davy stayed with the colt. Of

mornings, Landy assisted with the colt's grooming and education. His

white mane and tail were washed and brushed and his red coat fairly

shone from the attention given. Landy rasped his feet to evenness and

cautioned that he would have to be shod if used on hard-surfaced

roads. "Potter can shoe him all right," he explained, "but we'll have

to send an order for a set of little shoes to fit."

The morning rides were usually on the rather level roadway that led up

to Pinnacle Point, but there were sidetrips down ill-defined paths to

the little creeks. Landy sometimes went along to advise as to road

gaits. The Gillis dogs were constant companions. In fact, since the

night of Davy's arrival they waited around until he made his

appearance and followed him constantly. Except for the fact that he

was scheduled to make a public appearance at Adot next Saturday night,

David Lannarck was now enjoying the rest and joys that he had dreamed

of and planned when he was oppressed by the mob.

"I am not writing out a speech," Davy explained to Mrs. Gillis as he

bent over the pad of paper, pencil in hand. "I am just jotting down

some incidents of circus life that the public might want to know. This

girl over at the B-line--My, oh, my, but she's got a compelling line

of chatter. If she would do the ballyhoo for a Kid Show, she would

pack 'em in to bust down the sidewalls. Now this girl said I was to

talk about midgets and circuses. What I know about midgets and

circuses would fill two books. My problem is to leave out the

commonplace routine and tell 'inside stuff.'"

Mrs. Gillis had cleared a side table where Davy, in his high chair,

could jot down the items that he would use in his talk. It was while

he was thus engaged of afternoons and evenings that Mrs. Gillis heard

the life story of the only midget she had ever known.

"My name wasn't always Lannarck," Davy explained one afternoon when

Mrs. Gillis detailed something of her ancestry and early childhood.

"My name was O'Rahan, and I was christened Daniel. I am Irish--both

sides. My Dad was a young, happy-go-lucky Irish lad, a hard worker, a

free liver, and surely improvident. Foot-loose and free he joined a

party in the rush to the Klondike. Three years later he came back with

enough money to fill a pad saddle. And they took it away from him as

fast as he had accumulated it.

"He met my mother, Ellen Monyhan, at a party, and he was as speedy at

courting as he was at spending. They were married but a short while

when the financial crash came. He was ashamed and humiliated but not

beaten. He wanted another try at this fascinating game. He went back

to the Klondike--and to his death at sea.

"I was born in a hospital in Springfield. My young, heartbroken mother

died there. There were no relatives nearer than cousins. In due time I

was committed to an orphanage. I have no memory of either parent and

my information concerning them is meager and second hand. Now this

orphanage was well conducted, but it wasn't a home; it was an

institution. With anywhere from thirty to sixty children to care for,

it lacked the personal equation. It was mass production--you did

things by rote, en-masse--no individuality. But I have no complaint.

As a babe and child I was well-fed and clothed, in a uniform common to

all.

"And then I started to school along with all the others. But something

was happening to me that did not happen to the others. I quit growing.

Mentally I was like the others--kept up with my grades--but I never

grew taller than thirty-two inches and never weighed more than

thirty-eight pounds. Other children would shoot up like corn stalks,

but I stayed right where I had been in the months and years past.

"To me, it was a heart breaking disclosure. I wanted to play ball, to

make the team, only to find that as the slow months crept on, I was

assigned to the playground of the little kids, babes, toddlers. The

balls, bats, mitts, and other playthings were too big for me. But I

kept up with my classes in school and maybe the disappointments in

sports urged me to win somewhere else. I won the eighth-grade prize in

arithmetic and mechanical drawing. And then came high school, and the

great disaster, quickly followed by an entrance into an Orphan's

Heaven--a home in a private family. In the shifting personnel at the

orphanage, there were fewer high-school pupils. We went to a different

building over different streets. It was no doubt a singular sight to

the residents to see a midget with six-footers, but it was just that

way. And it must have been a singular sight to Loron Usark, a big

childish lout that lived on Spruce Street. We would pass the end of

the alley back of his house and he was out there every day to watch us

go by. Now this Loron was too weak, mentally, for school. Ordered

around by everybody and pestered and teased by many, the

moronic-minded will seek a victim that he can abuse and bend to his

own will, and this Loron party was on the lookout. One day he caught

me tagging along behind the others. He grabbed me and would have

beaten me, but my companions rescued me. After that, I had to be on

the lookout. I was marked for slaughter by this fool.

"Mrs. Gillis," Davy changed his tone of voice to a deeper bass, as was

his wont when he desired to impress a listener. He shook his pencil at

his deeply interested audience of one. "Mrs. Gillis, I've seen a lot

of people in my time. Except for old-time circus people and theatrical

troopers, I've seen a million more than my share. And you can set

this down on your mental calendar as an established truth: whenever

you see a Big One taunting a Little One, you can set him down as a big

coward. And, whenever you see a Dub kidding a Lout, you can be assured

that the dub is trying to lift himself above a similar rating.

"Well, this Loron lout finally got me," said Davy, resuming the thread

of his life story. "I was on my way back to the orphanage for a book

and as I passed the alley he swept me down. They were good sidewalks

out there, else he would have broken them in bits as he pounded my

head on 'em. He kicked when he could and struck as often as he cared.

His exultant cries must have attracted attention, for I was past even

an outcry. Finally a lady rushed out of the nearby house and came to

the rescue. The lout ran, of course. I stayed put. I couldn't do

anything else. The lady gathered me up, carried me into the house,

laid me on a couch as I passed out entirely.

"When I came to, a doctor had been there to patch me up and pass

judgment on my chances. He had washed off a lot of blood, plastered my

cheek, clipped my hair to plaster some more places, eased some body

welts, and announced that no bones had been broken. I was in a bed,

most of my clothing had been removed, and the lady was offering me a

drink of water. I took it.

"Mrs. Gillis," here Davy gave his voice its lowest pitch, "Mrs.

Gillis, that woman was Mrs. Sarah Wentworth Lannarck, and I know you

won't condemn me or be jealous when I say that she was the kindest,

most considerate woman that ever drew the breath of life. There have

been a lot of noble women on this troubled earth, doing what they

could to ease pain, to keep down strife, and to make the world a

better place in which to live. They are all worthy of our praise, but

to me, Mrs. Lannarck is sainted, and apart from the rest. Well, the

rest of the story is in happier settings and more readable chapters,"

said Davy, as he noted that Mrs. Gillis was somewhat affected by the

recital. "I really suspect that you would know more about these

conditions than I. Personally, I think all women want to manage a

home, want to boss the inmates. If there are no children, then they

manage the men-folk, or the household pets. And I was Mrs. Lannarck's

pet. She used me as a substitute for the children that never came into

her life. I was little; I was injured; I was a fit object of her

suppressed affections.

"She telephoned Mrs. Philpott, matron at the orphanage, and when she

called to see me, Mrs. Lannarck arranged to care for me until I was

well. She explained the whole affair to Mr. Lannarck, when he came

home to luncheon and that big, grave, silent man accepted her

statements without comment. Sick as I was, I heard all this and I too,

made some resolutions. I was not going to miss this chance of having a

home, and a mother. The very next morning I offered to get up and help

her do the dishes. She laughed like a girl, and vetoed my offer. In a

day or two I limbered up enough to get into my clothes and I puttered

around, offering to do things. My help was declined, but I could see

that it had the right effect.

"I didn't go to school for a few days. My face and head were still in

bandages. The story of the attack was in the newspaper and the civil

authorities committed the moron to an institution for the

feeble-minded. Some of the orphan kids visited me and I got them to

bring my little set of drawing tools. I was tinkering with these when

Mister Lannarck came in. He looked at some of my sketches and asked if

I could draft a plan in true proportions. I told him I thought I

could, if I had the correct measurements. He put on his coat and left.

"Now Mr. Lannarck was a carpenter-contractor. Not a big one, with an

office and a draftsman, bookkeeper and such; just a carpenter with a

desk in the front room where he kept his papers. He had little

education but his figures were correct. He had built good buildings,

but he specialized in repairs--in the upkeep of property--and he had

many clients. He was honest and fair; he made money and saved it. He

could read blueprints but he couldn't make 'em. His fingers were all

thumbs when it came to outlining.

"Presently he came back with some figures, and about the worst outline

I had ever seen. He explained it was a church. It was to have an

addition. There was a memorial window to be taken out and placed at

the right place in the new part. He had the correct figures and he

wanted a rough draft to show 'em. He gave me some big sheets to work

on.

"That night, Mrs. Lannarck had to order me to bed, I was that

interested. The next morning I was up early. That evening I showed him

my outline. He didn't say much. He took the drawings and his own

figures to a meeting that night. When he came home he said he had

closed the deal, that my outline was what had helped, said it would

make money. My, oh, my, but there was a proud boy in a big bed at the

Lannarck home that night. That was the first dollar I have ever

earned. Of course, I didn't get the dollar, but I got much more.

"It sounds sorta mushy, doesn't it, Mrs. Gillis," said Davy,

interrupting the recital. "Kind of a Pollyanna tale with a Horatio

Alger finish. But in none of his stories did Alger ever portray a

tougher background or give it a bigger skyrocket finish. Just think of

it, Mrs. Gillis! Here was a kid with the black thought that he was

never to be a man; was never to do a man's work, never to win in any

manly contest. Worse yet, he had never seen his father or felt a

mother's caress. He never had had a place called home. Do you blame

him for horning in?

"Well, it worked out better than I hoped. The next day Mrs. Lannarck

began moving the furniture in one of the bedrooms. She emptied dresser

drawers, cleared out the closet and brought in other things. Then she

invited me up there; told me that she had arranged every thing and

this was to be my room, where I could put my things.

"Things? Why, I had come into that home with a busted head and not a

penny in my pocket. The very clothes that I wore belonged to the

county. Except for the little drawing tools I had, you could have put

all of my things in a thimble. Yet I was the richest man in

Springfield.

"I lived in that room four happy blessed years. They were years of few

incidents and no friction. Mrs. Lannarck bought me a complete outfit

of clothing, and she was as particular about the details as if it were

a bride's trousseau. She even provided me with a weekly allowance,

small, to be sure, but there was nothing I needed. I kept right on at

school and helped around the house wherever I could. I kept Mr.

Lannarck's books, made out his estimates, and drafted his plans. I

checked up his payrolls, met his workmen, and his banker. I even met

the judge of the court when they adopted me and changed my name.

"I went to church with Mrs. Lannarck, went to Sunday School, and took

part in the entertainments. They insisted I was a drawing card and

they featured the appearance of a midget on the program. It was all

right by me if it met the approval of the Lannarcks.

"During the war, the committee featured me in the Bond Drives. There

was a big fellow I teamed up with, named George Ruark. He was nearly a

seven-footer and weighed three hundred. I could stand in his two hands

as he held them in front of him and urged everybody to back up the war

as strongly as I was backed. It made a hit; it got results.

"And then inevitable but unwanted death stalked in, to ruin

everything. Mister Lannarck died. He was older than I had thought. He

was always careful and honest. He was putting a new roof on the

Auditorium when he fell. Maybe it was a stroke. They took him to the

hospital. He died on the third day after the fall.

"This was the beginning of the end. A link was broken in the chain. It

never mended. Mrs. Lannarck bore up bravely, but I could see that she

had lost all earthly joys and simply awaited her summons. Mr.

Lannarck's financial affairs were in good shape. He left quite an

estate. The income was ample for our simple needs, but that was not

enough. Mrs. Lannarck simply could not go on. She died in a little

over a year following the death of her companion. For the second time

in my life, I was an orphan.

"But this time I was to have a guardian. I had been legally adopted. I

was the heir. I was rich. In the first fifteen years of my life, I had

never seen money, never a penny of my own. Now it was the other way.

After the funeral I went down to the bank to consult with Mister

Gaynor. He handed me a sealed envelope. It was a message from the

dear, kind, motherly Mrs. Lannarck. It was a letter of kindly advice,

personal and spiritual. She said that she never doubted but that I

would walk in the right path, but she made this final appeal. If I

never married, never had heirs or dependents, and if there was any of

the Lannarck estate left at my death, would I make a will, leaving a

portion of it to the Grace Avenue Presbyterian Church, in trust for

its upkeep, and a portion to the county orphanage, for the occasional

entertainment of its inmates.

"Mrs. Gillis." Davy was the one now affected by the recitals. His

voice was lower and slower. "Mrs. Gillis, after reading that message,

I hadn't the tears out of my eyes nor my voice cleared up, until I was

making that will. Gaynor did the work, he knew how, that was his

business, and he made it read just as Mrs. Lannarck had requested. The

Trust Department of the bank was made the trustee. One-half of all

income from my estate was to be paid to the church, the other half for

orphanage entertainment. It stands just that way yet, although the

value of the estate has doubled.

"The Lannarck estate was what the bank folks called Income Property.

It included two suburban store rooms with apartments above. There were

three very good residences, five shares of bank stock, bonds and notes

and a considerable bank deposit. I made a resolution then and there,

that I would never touch a penny of it, and that resolution has been

kept. The income has piled up until it now nearly equals the

principal. Poor old Gaynor, the next-best friend I ever had, keeps the

income collected and invested, and if this depression would only let

up and give him a chance, he could build those Presbyterians a new

church and give the orphans a picture show every night.

"Of course I've earned quite a lot of money, meanwhile, but Gaynor

keeps that as a separate checking account; says circuses and

vaudeville are not a dependable source of income and that I may go

broke. This Ralph Gaynor is a wonder in his line, but it's not my kind

of a line. He talks of interest, margins of safety, of unearned

increments, corporate earnings, and things like that. His is not the

big bank, with its long rows of figures. His is just a little

'Dollar-Down' concern, and he owns it all. Just now, in this

depression, the Big Fellows are running to him asking, 'What to do?'

And he's telling 'em to trim sails and stay close to shore.

"Ralph Gaynor is the second helpful man to come into my life, but when

I grew sick and tired of being gawked at, during all my waking hours

and resolved to duck away from the mob, I didn't go back to Ralph

Gaynor for advice. He just wouldn't understand. The word 'recreation'

is not in his vocabulary. Colts, dogs, kid-saddles, horseback riding,

Landy's wisecracks, and my present-day joys have no listed values with

Ralph Gaynor, and I passed him up. If it were Mrs. Lannarck, she would

understand and give it sympathetic approval.

"Well, that's something of the life story of one midget, Mrs. Gillis.

Add to this, twelve long summers with circuses and the winters spent

in vaudeville (both with their mobs and gawking crowds) and it's

almost a completed volume. There is yet one chapter to be added and I

want to talk about it to the public. One man, Baron Singer, did more

for midgets--little people--than any other person, in all time. He

lifted them out of the mediocre; gave them standing and personality.

I never met the Baron, but I want the public to know what great work

he did for an underprivileged group. And I will tell 'em Saturday

night."

9

Gillis and Welborn did not return from their mission the next day as

they had planned. Sunday passed by without word of their whereabouts.

The stay-at-homes wondered if it was to be peace or war with maudling

gangsters. Did Welborn's fifty-to-one chance fail? Davy had planned to

ride over to the B-line, and go over his speech-plans with his manager

and promoter. Now, it seemed necessary that he and Landy ride down to

the filling station seeking news of the missing ones. Monday noon, the

faithful old Gillis car labored up the hill and came to a stop. Jim

and Sam got out to inquire if dinner was ready.

Little was said during the meal as to the outcome of their trip. Jim

made a brief explanation that they had been as far as Rawlins,

accompanying the sheriff in his disposition of his boarders. The

sheriff explained that he wanted to take them past the penitentiary to

show them what they missed, and where they would live if they ever

came back to this section. He took them all to the railway station,

loaded two on the east-bound train and two went west. The sheriff

retained the count's car as security for advances made.

That evening, however, after Davy had returned from delivering Welborn

his supper, the four gathered in the Gillis sitting room and Jim gave

more details. "This man Welborn musta been in the army," he declared.

"Musta been a tough old top sergeant, er the general in command, the

way he took charge. He managed every detail and managed it right.

Everything worked out as planned.

"We kept old Maddy out of the judge's sight, 'en it was well enough

that we did, for Judge Withers was pretty hostile towards these crazy

galoots that invaded the community and disturbed the peace. He would

enforce the sentence, but he listened to the sheriff's complaint that

four such prisoners were too many for his cramped quarters, too costly

for the results obtained. The judge agreed to suspend sentence on

condition that the sheriff would deport 'em and keep 'em deported.

"We didn't have any trouble establishing Maddy's claim to the two

sacks of dust. Maddy easily identified 'em and I knew they were his,

but what about these gangsters? Would the count surrender title to the

damaged car to compensate for rail transportation? And would they

agree to leave and never come back? The sheriff had had several

interviews with 'em on these matters and had never gained assent to

the plan, especially as to the count and his car. The sheriff was

bothered, didn't believe it could be done.

"Again it was Welborn who made the plan and gave orders. 'Bring that

count in here,' he said, 'and leave me alone with him for about ten

minutes. I'll find out if he wants to live or die.' And the sheriff

did as Welborn said, and before the ten minutes were up, the count had

readily and eagerly accepted all the conditions. We took all of 'em

over to court, the judge repeated the sentence, suspended it if they

stayed out of the court's jurisdiction. We had 'em in Rawlins and on

their way by Sunday noon.

"No, I don't know what Welborn said to the count," was Jim's reply to

Davy's eager question. "It must have been potent and terrifying, the

way that gangster wet his lips and swollered."

"Did young Goff accept Maddy's gift of the gold dust?" Jim laughed.

"That's another Welborn plan and order and it wasn't ignored. This

young Goff is a fine fellow. He took good care of Maddy during the

whole trip. When we got back to the filling station and Goff was to go

on his way, Maddy offered him the dust and he refused it. Here

Welborn stepped in. He shook a little out of one sack to make 'em

equal; he handed one sack to Mrs. Carter and placed the other in

Goff's car. 'You keep that,' he ordered. 'This old man will live

longer, happier, more contented in knowing he has a neighbor that he

can freely call on for help who will respond to his call. He's got a

right to this comfort and satisfaction. You take it.' And young Goff

took it."

The next morning David Lannarck was up bright and early, intent on his

plans to visit the B-line ranch, but Mrs. Gillis had beat him to the

draw. Landy was directed to change the stock cattle over into the

ravine pasture while Jim did the milking. Davy would take Welborn's

breakfast to him and wait at the Point until Landy, and the dogs, had

finished their job.

Like the rest of the men folk at the Gillis ranch, Davy accepted his

orders. He saddled the colt, maneuvered him up to the kitchen door for

the basket of breakfast, and rode to the Point alone. Early as it was,

he found Welborn up the ravine examining the gravel in a sheltered

nook.

"I can work this area this winter, when the rest of the valley is

covered with snow," Welborn explained as they walked back to the cabin

and the basket of breakfast.

"Yes, and if you had a dynamo and electric lights," retorted Davy,

"you could work nights. What's all the rush? This stuff will keep."

Welborn laughed, but he grew serious to explain: "I would like to take

nine thousand dollars out of this hole by early spring, and as near as

I estimate values, I've got the job about half done. There's nearly

two hundred ounces in those little sacks. If my partner will be

lenient in demanding his share, I think I can get it done this

winter."

"If I advance the nine thousand right now, say by the end of the week,

will you let up on this drive-drive-drive stuff, and relax and be

yourself?" Davy's question was a demand, earnestly stated.

Welborn gave an inquiring look to see if he was being scolded or

kidded. He decided that it was neither of these. "Why would you want

to do that, Laddie?" he asked in a subdued tone.

"Just to keep a good man from worrying himself to death," retorted the

midget. "I want to prevent a funeral, make an asset out of a

liability. I want to get a big, fine man back to his normal self. If

you will agree to let up on this push-drive-urge stuff; stop long

enough to read a book, to laugh at Jiggs or Popeye or Dagwood, or any

of the other funnies, go with me over to Adot where the mine-run folks

can see what a big, fine upstanding partner I've got, why I'll have

that little, old nine thousand in here by Saturday.

"Oh, I know that money is scarce, hard to get just now," Davy

explained in response to Welborn's shake of the head, "but this money

is idle, and there's plenty of security up in that ravine. It's not

the loan, it's the results, I'm wanting. Of course, there's something

eating you, some past catastrophe or mistake, that's got you down.

You're worried, killing yourself trying to get it corrected. I don't

know what it is, and don't want to know, until you are ready. Of

course it will work out all right. There'll be a climax, a denouement,

as old director Mecklin used to call the final act, and I want you to

be right here, in person, in good health and spirits, to join with the

rest of us in the applause and cheers."

Welborn had walked over to the window, but not to look out. His head

was down, he was taking punishment. Presently he lifted his shoulders

and head. There was a smile on his face even if his voice was husky.

"In all my varied years, Sonny Boy, I never heard finer compliments

mixed up with some real truths. What you've said is worth more to me

than your kindly offer of funds. I wouldn't take your money under any

condition, it would add complications, but I am going to take your

advice. From now on, I'll try to do as you say, try to save myself for

the glorious finish that you picture."

The arrival of Jim in the old car and Landy's clamorous calls broke up

the conference. Davy hurried out to join his friend in their planned

trip to the B-line ranch. He was very quiet in the hazards of Brushy

Fork, but on arriving at the level stretch beyond he stopped Landy.

"What am I going to name this colt, Landy? He's got to have a name, if

he's to be taught to do things. Old Boss Fletcher had a name for every

elephant in the herd, and they would step right out when their names

were called. Horses, dogs, elephants, even the cats quickly learned

their names and the short words like 'halt,' 'go,' 'kneel,' 'turn,'

and the like. This colt is smart, wants to do things, if you're not

too dumb in telling him what you want. But he's got to have a name."

"Alice and I were talkin' about that the other night," replied the ex

cow-hand. "She had some flossy ones: Emperor, Commander, President, en

sich, but I vetoed that trash, the colt couldn't carry 'em and live. I

suggested Red, er Monty, er some sich. Thar we adjourned and left the

colt without a moniker. What's yer notion of a name fer this little

hoss?"

"I just can't think of the right one," said Davy resignedly. "It

wouldn't do to name him after some of the folks around here, that

would mix things up. The circus folks have worn out such names as

Barnum, Ringling, Robinson, Bailey, Coles, Sells, Barnes, Wallace, and

others and they don't fit a small hoss anyhow. I am in hopes that this

fine, smart Adine girl at the B-line has some sort of a suggestion.

Maybe, she's got a name that will do."

At a favorable place on the narrow road where the travelers could gaze

down on a bunch of the B-line cattle quietly grazing and where the

morning sun splashed varied colors on the distant hills, Davy pushed

his mount in front of old Gravy to halt the party. He flung his hand

in a wide sweep to include everything in sight.

"That's Paradise, Landy. It's what I've dreamed about for the last ten

years. It's the wide open spaces filled with all the variations in old

Nature's book of scenery. And best of all, there's no mob of nit-wits

to titter and smirk. It's my Heaven.

"Just now, two things blur the picture; I want to get this speech

thing off my hands, and I want to find a resister, a sass-back, a

contrary cuss, that will argue back at me. I want to keep him nearby

to remind me of old times. Why back two years ago, I used to visit old

Polo Garrett, who had the concession in the menagerie tent, just to

get cussed out. Polo's vocabulary was limited to sassing back. 'What's

eatin' ya?,' 'Git outa here,' 'Who's a-running this dump?' 'Whar do ya

git that stuff?' were his mildest phrases. When I got fed up on a

bunch of simpering women and their, 'ain't he cute?' stuff, all I had

to do was to barge in on Polo and get cussed out and learn that the

world wasn't all gush and guff.

"And particularly I need this 'argufyer' right out here now. I'm

getting tired of having my own way. The people are too kind, too

considerate, regard me as a child to be petted and pampered. There's

too much mushy sentiment. A day or two ago, I told Mrs. Gillis my life

history. It was mushy and without climax. She wanted to cry over it.

This morning, before you came to the Point, I gave Welborn a big going

over about his working all the time. And he never sassed back. He

should have kicked me out. Instead of that, he agreed with me. Him, a

big, strong man that had made a gangster eat his gun and ordered the

judge and sheriff what to do! The idea! Him letting a midget order him

around! What we need here is a good cusser-outer."

"You're too late," said Landy dryly. "You've missed yer appointment by

about forty years. We had a party up state wunst, that filled all yer

requirements. Hit was a woman. She'd fuss at the sun fer comin' up, an

cuss hit fer goin' down. She buried three husbands en was deserted by

several more. At her death, en in honor of the happy event, they named

a little crick after her. They called hit Crazy Woman's Crick.... Hi,

Potter," Landy called, as they approached the stables of the B-line

ranch. "Git that gate opened and throw out yer welcome rug."

"Troubles never come single, they come in bunches," grumbled Potter as

he complied. "Two hosses go lame this mornin', en Jim Finch, the

grazing commissioner, comes from up on the Mad Trapper Fork a-callin'

on us fer help to round up some of old Hull Barrow's misfits of horns,

hoofs, and hides, en to add further miseries, here you arrive on the

scene. Why, Peaches gave out strict orders, that if old Turkeyneck

came prowlin' around, to say, that she wasn't at home at all en to

tell the little gent to ride right into the house."

"Who said that?" demanded Davy, with alacrity.

"Why, Peaches, Miss Adine, she said if old Landy--"

"Ye, Ho!" yelled Davy excitedly. "This colt is named. That's it!

Peaches! Why didn't we think of that before, Landy?" Davy patted the

colt's neck affectionately. "That's your name, old boy, Peaches!"

Hearing the outcry, Adine Lough came out of the house, and down the

graveled way. "Good morning," she called. "I was expecting you. My,

but he's handsome," she exclaimed, examining the little horse that

arched his neck in approval of the inspection. "You look like a

gallant cavalier out of the old picture books."

"We've just named him," said Davy proudly. "We named him after you.

His name is Peaches."

"Ah, pshaw," said the girl, laughing and blushing. "That's just a

nickname that these men out here call me behind my back, of course,

and the poor colt deserves a better fate. But come in, both of you, I

have good news." The girl led the way into the hall. "You go in and

visit with grandpa, Landy, while we talk shop in the library.

"I talked with the Nazarene preacher and he's very enthusiastic over

the plan and prospects," Adine explained after they were settled in

the workshop. "I told him of the ad, that I was to run in the paper

and he's somewhat of an artist and is putting up signs all over town.

It augurs a good crowd, the biggest ever to assemble in Adot. He plays

an accordion and his wife sings and they have arranged for a quartette

of girls to sing a couple of numbers and then you are to talk. The

meeting is to be held in Joe Burns's big warehouse and it won't hold

the people. Now this is not a church meeting, it's an entertainment.

You can laugh and applaud at will. You can tell funny stories about

circuses or what-have-you, it's informal, go as far as you like!"

"Well, here's how I had mapped out the talk. I'll tell 'em something

about midgets," said Davy, "for midgets seem to be a forgotten subject

in literature. If you will comb your college library down at Boulder,

you'll not find a single book on the subject, and I am not sure that I

know enough about 'em to fill out a talk on the subject."

"That's the very subject you ought to talk on. Why I can hardly wait

to hear it. Who better can tell it? If you are short of facts, just

romance a little, that's allowable where facts are scarce. Tell 'em

personal incidents and don't make 'em too solemn or pathetic. Make 'em

laugh. Personally, I'm going to get a close-up seat, for in that big

barn of a place I doubt if you can reach the outer fringes."

"Well, if the preacher gent can make himself heard, I can too,"

retorted Davy. "I practiced up on that stuff, there's where I

specialized. You see, Miss Adine, when I joined up with the Singer

Midgets at Saint Louis, I didn't have an act, a specialty, anything to

give the public. I just joined up because Baron Singer was collecting

midgets, showing 'em a good time, with no thought of making a profit.

But it did make profit. The public wanted to see midgets.

"It was my first contact with my clan. I noticed that midgets didn't

change their voices when they reached maturity, still spoke in

childish tones. Not having much to do, I practiced voice culture,

deepened and strengthened my speech. I made my voice reach to the back

seats. It earned me a job. I became the announcer; made the

in-front-of-the-curtain talks. In the summer, with the Big Top, I

often simulated the ringmaster to make announcements from the center

ring. It was a feature all right, seeing a little guy doing a big

man's job.

"Oh I'll make 'em hear all right, but what they are to hear is the

problem. To the midget stuff I thought I would add a few paragraphs

about circus people, the different kinds and what they do. The general

public never contacts the real circus people, just the ticket takers,

ushers, and roustabouts. They never meet the managers and performers.

And because grafters, shilabers, and skin-game artists follow

circuses, the public thinks these are a part of it. It's only fair to

circus people that this connection be denied."

"Why, I didn't know that," exclaimed Adine, "I just supposed the

grafters were a part of it. Here I am, learning a lot of things and

school not yet started. Anyhow, I'm going to buy a ticket for Mrs.

Carmody and inveigle her to the entertainment. She said circus people

ought not be allowed to participate in a church benefit.

"Now you are to come over here Saturday morning. Bring Landy with you,

as we can all three ride to Adot in my roadster. There, we will lay

the top back, and with you between us, sitting up on the back cushion,

we'll parade the town. The door opens at seven o'clock. Performance

begins at seven-thirty. Then we come back here for the night and you

can ride home Sunday morning. You can talk for an hour if you want to,

but you should speak for thirty minutes at least."

10

"Are you going to live here always?" asked Davy as he slid down off

the dictionary and chair at the end of the conference. "What I mean is

this, Adine," he added, noting the girl's questioning look. "Are you

going to spend your life out here in the sticks, with cattle, horses,

and a few yokels that you have to ride miles and miles, before you see

two of 'em together?"

"Why, this is my home, I belong here, the same as other young people

live with their folks," replied the girl, somewhat startled by the

abruptness of the question. "I haven't planned to shift pastures, as

grandaddy would say. Why are you asking such an abrupt, personal

question?"

"Well, it is sorta personal and rather abrupt," agreed the midget in

an appeasing tone. "I should have made the approach with more finesse.

Abruptness is one of my defects. But now that I've blundered in, I'd

just as well finish. You don't belong out here in the wide open

spaces, in these sparse settlements. You belong in the congested

areas, where big things are being done, where there's planning,

execution, accomplishment. Why, you've taken over both ends of a

little hoss trade, laid out all the plans, details and ground work for

a community entertainment, and did it with the ease of a big executive

lighting a cigarette. You need a big job, in a big place. With your

personality and head-work, you can climb up the ladder to the top

rung."

"Well, of all things!" said the girl, embarrassed at the unexpected

drift, but laughing at the implications. "And this from a guy that has

fled the mob and wants me to take his place. Now just what big job

have you laid out for me? Running a circus? Managing a theater? Or

maybe operating a railroad?"

"You could make a success with any or all of 'em," retorted Davy. "But

none of these were in my mind. Some women want a career. Some gain it

by their own efforts and some climb to success on a ladder supported

by others. Then there is the big majority--many of 'em brilliant and

capable--that just settle down in the doldrums of marriage and let

their talents rust out in negligence and inattention."

"Then I'm not to marry?"

"You ought to. A gal as attractive, vivacious, and clever as you are,

would have to marry--in self-defense, if for no other reason. Marriage

need not interfere. It might help. With that hazard and gamble out of

the way, it would allow you to expand your talents in planning,

executing, and managing in any line you choose."

"And about when do you plan that this defense marriage--this shotgun

wedding--is to take place?" questioned Adine scornfully. "And who's

the victim?"

"Now that's a candle-flame that I'll keep my fingers out of," said

Davy hastily. "Judge Vane told me once a person who advises or mixes

in on the marriage relations of others is liable in damages. And

anyhow, sane people don't run matrimonial agencies. In that debacle,

you're on your own. I'm promoting talent, not running a marriage

bureau. And I don't want the side show to dim the performance in the

big top. You've got talent, personality, ability to influence others,

and whether you are solo in the orchestra or doubling in brass in the

matrimonial band makes no difference. You ought to be directing the

mob instead of listening to a lone midget."

Adine Lough laughed, not at the text, but the homely comparisons of

the little man that, standing hat in hand, was earnestly and seriously

throwing bouquets of compliments and darts of poignant facts right in

her face. And both the flowers and darts were coming from an

unexpected source. With the delicate matrimonial problem swept

completely aside, she felt that this new-found friend, in his

nation-wide travels and a million contacts, was really sincere in some

of his estimates and was trying to be helpful in his blunt, abrupt

appraisals. Anyhow, she was reconciled to that view.

"Well, I never had so many compliments in all my life! I didn't know

that you were a student of sociology--could estimate capabilities and

get everyone in their right groove. I should have been conferring with

you, for I have an unsolved problem, bigger than any you've

mentioned." Adine had ceased her scorning tones; now she was asking

for an answer. She motioned Davy to a footstool.

"Why, I didn't know that you had a care in the world. As Polo Garrett

used to say, 'What's eatin' ya?'"

"My problem is my family. I'm the only one left that is able to do

things. There is little I can do to aid the ones that are sick and I

am making no progress in keeping these two big, clumsy ranches out of

bankruptcy.

"Father, as you know, is in the hospital in Omaha and mother was

called there three weeks ago. The trivial ulcers have developed into

something worse. Daddy went to Omaha to be near the market that was

tumbling, crashing, and bringing on bankruptcy to stock raisers. He

hoped to find a solution, hoped to learn that the end of the disaster

was in sight. He had been cutting production for four years; surely a

period of scarcity was at hand, he wanted to be ready.

"Meanwhile he consulted a specialist on a matter of stomach ulcers,

only to encounter a more serious condition. A dozen years ago, in one

season, he had sold eighty thousand dollars worth of livestock from

these two ranches. Just now, he has sold breeding stock until there's

little left. Now these recent sales were made not to get money, but to

reduce the supply, to meet conditions. Money needs were not serious

until both banks failed two years ago, and then it became a calamity.

And now, my young counselor, adviser, flatterer, and friend, do you

think I should seek a job in the congested areas?"

"Well, it does appear that you are involved in a lot of

responsibility, and surely have a big problem on your hands. You speak

of two ranches. Where's the other one?"

"Really, it's all one," the girl explained, "but Grandaddy keeps up

the pretense of operating one of his own--wants to compete with Father

in management--in livestock, in methods. It's the Old Pioneer versus

the Progressive. Longhorn versus thoroughbred, and Daddy indulges and

encourages him in the plan.

"You see, Grandfather had settled on Grant's Fork (that's about four

miles west); he had built a cabin and stables, long before the

surveyors came. 'They surveyed me in,' was his frequent statement. And

there he lived and carried on until Father grew up, married, and built

this home. Grandfather registered his cattle brand as the Bowline. It

is a bent bow with a taut string. Father carried the same brand, but

folks began calling it the B-line and both ranches go by that name.

And it's really one to the outsider. The difference in methods and in

management is best illustrated by the fact that in the fall,

Grandfather takes a week to drive his finished product to the pens at

the railroad siding, while Father trucks a full carload over there in

the early morning.

"But in all these years there never was any distinction in ownership

of property or chattels. If Grandfather wanted a stack of hay or a

roll of fencing he came and got it. He would call on Daddy's men for

help as freely as he would call his own. They paid each other's bills

without any accounting and there was never any friction, until now.

Now, the problem of all these past years is dumped right in my lap. I

don't know how to handle it. I am desperate for advice, so desperate

that I now seek the counsel of the Oracle of the Footlights, the

Mystic of the Sawdust Ring. Wilt thou help me, Sire?" concluded Adine,

as she bowed in mock distress to the little man squirming on the

footstool.

"Well, I don't see that you need help. You've done all that is needful

and possible. You can't heal the sick, stop a financial depression, or

retard old age, but you've left nothing undone. Your problem is

already solved."

"We haven't reached the insoluble part," said Adine gravely. "I've

just given you the details leading up to it. I have shown that there

were two ranches, two plans of management, an intermingling of assets,

and never the least bit of friction. Yet there is one thing in which

they are as far apart as the two poles: Father always banks his money,

and Grandaddy never did. It doesn't seem possible for a person to live

as long as Grandfather has and not use a bank. Back in the early days,

he wore a money belt with gold in it. In later years he had what he

calls a keyster, a metal box with lock and key where he keeps paper

money. He is not a miser; he pays bills promptly and gives generously.

The keyster was never hidden. It might be left on the table or mantel

or, because of its weight, it might be used as a door prop. So far as

I know, no one ever cheated him, and surely no one had the nerve to

try to take it by force.