Ben’s Ross service rifle was in a rack, as was the revolver with its

lanyard. Denis gladly took back these weapons, and found Cowley’s

revolver hanging to a nail. No other rifle was in evidence, however,

and he conjectured that Cowley had not gone forth unarmed. This,

however, he had expected.

Leaving Smoking Duck locked up safely, Denis sallied forth on his

tour of inspection. First he visited the lean-to at the right, and in

this he found a few sacks of corn, together with several sacks marked

“Beans” and “Potatoes.” A slash with his knife showed that all these

were filled with corn.

“So Cowley has been importing all the corn he could, under every

disguise possible!” thought Denis, looking down at the sacks. “The

question is, why? In about two minutes your little game will be up, my

friend!”

As he closed the rude door of the lean-to and stepped out into the

early-morning sunshine, he paused suddenly. The night wind had died

away; the morning was perfectly calm and clear. He stood motionless,

listening—and the sound came again. It was a distant but still

recognizable rifle crack. A third sounded instantly, then two or three

shots came almost together. After that, silence.

“That’s Cowley and Ballard!” thought Denis, his blue eyes narrowing.

“If they haven’t got him, he’ll be back presently. If they have—then

it’s up to me to arrest Ballard’s crowd. By Jasper, I don’t like this

business a little bit!”

No further sounds of conflict reached him. While he could sympathize

with Ballard and the latter’s friends, he knew perfectly well that he

must arrest them if they had killed Cowley. He was representing Big

Ben Stewart, and his uniform typified the law, and Ben would be held

responsible for the upholding of the law.

Frowning uneasily, he passed on around the corner of the log structure,

and again came to where he had found Smoking Duck at work. He stepped

to the doorway, set down his rifle beside that of the half-breed, and

entered the mysterious lean-to.

This proved to be unlighted save by the door, and for a moment his eyes

could not pierce the semidarkness. Then, as he saw what manner of place

this was, an exclamation of slow surprise broke from his lips.

“By Jasper! And to think that I never even suspected it—and dad was the

closest guesser of all!”

To either side of him were piled small kegs, and above these were neat

rows of glass half-pint flasks, precisely similar to that which he had

found on the person of The Pigeon a few days previously. About half of

them were filled with a white liquid, and the subtle odor of whisky

which pervaded the room betrayed the nature of that liquid. But Denis

merely noted these things in passing—his gaze, was riveted on what lay

beyond, across the room from him.

There, with a small fire still burning, was a complicated arrangement

of metal which he did not understand at all, but whose usage was quite

evident to him. He had seen pictures of stills before this, and knew at

once that he had solved the mystery of Cowley’s corn and trading and

illegal work. Every detail lay clear before him.

Here on Hay Lake, hundreds of miles from anywhere, Cowley had located

a private whisky distillery. From Fort Vermilion to the summer Hudson

Bay Post, farther down the Hay, he had brought up corn under various

disguises, to avert possible suspicion, and had calmly proceeded

to manufacture his own whisky and trade it to the Indians in the

neighborhood.

“This is going the whisky-running game one better, all right!”

exclaimed Denis, as he eyed the place. “Well, my job is clear—so here

goes!”

Stepping outside, he took up Smoking Duck’s ax and reëntered. First

drawing what was left of the fire and carefully stamping it out, he

then waded into the still, ripping the copper worm and everything else

into useless shreds of metal. He did his work thoroughly and left

nothing undestroyed.

Then he turned his attention to the kegs and bottles. The latter he

smashed where they were; the former he rolled out into the yard. Ten

of the kegs were full of whisky, and these he smashed in and emptied.

Satisfied at length that the whole affair had been destroyed, with the

exception of one flask to be used as evidence if necessary, he wiped

his dripping face and took up the two rifles.

“Here’s a good morning’s work for Ben, anyhow!” he muttered happily.

“Now I’d better prepare my little reception committee for Mr. Cowley—or

Ballard. I wonder which will come?”

CHAPTER XIII.

Cowley Cries “Enough!”

FROM the front of the shack, the lake was, of course, hidden by the

intervening hill. Denis remembered that the presence of his canoe would

warn Cowley if the latter arrived in flight from Ballard, and struck

off to the creek at a sharp trot.

Once here, he went on to the edge of the lake, and scrambled through

the bushes to a vantage point. And here his mental question was

answered instantly.

A scant quarter mile away was a canoe bearing a single

paddler—evidently Cowley. The canoe was heading for the creek entrance,

and was traveling fast. A mile or more behind it was another canoe

bearing four men, and for a moment Denis eyed them, wondering why they

did not catch up with Cowley. Then he laughed shortly.

“Overloaded, by Jasper! All four of ’em in her, and she must be right

down to the water, so they don’t dare put on speed. This simplifies

things for me, then.”

So, apparently, it did, since Cowley was coming squarely into the trap.

At the moment it did not occur to Denis that Ballard’s arrival might

bring him a new problem, and the most difficult one which he had yet

faced.

Returning to the log landing, he picked up his canoe and carried it

a dozen yards away, placing it among the bushes, where the hurrying

Cowley would never notice it. This done, he made his way back to the

shack.

With his Ross rifle under his arm, he set the other weapons out of

reach in a corner. A glitter on the floor caught his eye, and he

stooped to pick up the handcuffs which he had intended to place on

Cowley and had worn himself by the irony of circumstance. He slipped

them into his pocket and opened the door of the prison chamber.

Smoking Duck was sitting on the floor, in sour apathy, his wrists as

Denis had left them. Denis smiled cheerfully at him.

“I suppose you heard the sound of wreckage, my friend? Yes, your little

game is up for good and all. By the way, where’s the key of those

handcuffs? I want to use them on your precious partner pretty quick.”

Smoking Duck glared up at him, and finally grunted out that the key was

lost.

“So much the worse for Cowley, then—he’ll have to reach headquarters

before getting released from bondage. I see you still have some coffee

on the fire—want a hot cup that’ll cheer but not inebriate?”

The scowling half-breed emitted a flood of mingled Cree and English,

which Denis rightly imagined to be a profane refusal, so he barred the

door and left Smoking Duck to his own reflections.

A pot of coffee stood on the tiny fish-shanty stove, and in a couple of

moments Denis had a fire going, for he had not eaten since the previous

evening. Keeping one eye on the edge of the clearing, he swallowed some

half-warmed coffee and a cold sour-dough biscuit—and looked out to see

the figure of Cowley coming at a run, rifle in hand.

Denis cocked his own rifle, drew to one side of the doorway, and

waited. On his way across the clearing, Cowley let out a roar for

Smoking Duck, but the half-breed had not the presence of mind to call

out a warning, or else he had not yet comprehended the full situation

of affairs.

Thus Cowley came leaping into the trap. At sight of the man’s brutal

face, Denis saw that he had been badly frightened; but that would

further his own ends.

“Hands up—hurry!”

That snappy, curt command stopped Cowley as if shot. He was looking

squarely into the muzzle of the Ross rifle.

For a moment he was paralyzed. His undershot jaw dropped in blank

amazement, and the ragged mustache drew back from his yellow teeth in

a snarl. Over the rifle sights the blue eyes of Denis were blazing at

him, and with a single curse Cowley dropped his rifle and lifted his

hands. As he did so, he took a backward step toward the door.

“Stop that!” snapped Denis. “Walk this way and put out your hands,

wrists together. I mean business, Cowley, and you’d better believe it.”

Cowley flung a hunted look over his shoulder at the clearing, then

slowly obeyed the command, advancing toward Denis.

His heavy face showed mingled fear, bewilderment, and fury. But when

Denis took the handcuffs from his pocket Cowley cried out sharply:

“Not that, Mister Trooper—fer Gawd’s sake, don’t iron me! There’s four

fellers right after me——”

“I know that,” said Denis warily. “And one of them’s Ballard, the man

you cheated down on the Peace River. Your chickens are coming home to

roost with a vengeance, eh? Stick out your hands!”

He held out the open handcuffs. But Cowley, breathing hoarsely, drew

back in fear that was by no means assumed.

“I tell ye they’re after me!” he repeated. “Look-a-here, don’t lay me

up where I can’t shoot, ye fool! Them fellers aims to murder me, an’ I

got to handle a gun in about two minutes!”

“You’ll handle no more guns for a while.” Denis was smiling slightly,

his eyes steady. “Bray has gone back to Vermilion, and I’ve just had

the pleasure of smashing up your liquor stock and distillery. So you

ran into Ballard, eh? I heard some shots—what happened down there?”

Cowley made as if to wipe his dripping brow, but halted as Denis’

linger tightened on the trigger.

“They seen me first an’ let drive. I dropped one o’ them—leastways I

winged him a bit, then I shoved fer home. Now, use sense! You ain’t

a-goin’ to fix me where they’ll pump lead into me without me gettin’ a

chance to shoot——”

“Shut up that nonsense!” broke in Denis. “You’re not going to be hurt

unless you get gay with me. If you don’t stick your hands here in ten

seconds, I’m going to drop you with a bullet in your leg—take your

choice!”

He meant the words, for he saw that the situation was grave in the

extreme. Cowley had shot one of the four pursuers, and that meant

trouble. Men of Ballard’s stamp would require tenfold vengeance for

that shot. None the less, Denis saw his duty clear-cut before him, and

intended to protect his prisoner to the utmost.

With a growling snarl, Cowley advanced and held forth his hands, wrists

together. Denis lifted the open handcuffs in his left hand—and, as he

did so, Cowley swiftly struck the rifle aside and bore him down with a

pantherlike leap.

Taken utterly by surprise, Denis went back and the rifle was knocked

across the shack with a clatter. Cowley’s fist drove home on his cheek,

knocking him into the wall; but as the ruffian followed, Denis flung

himself to one side and scrambled up.

A fierce rush of anger swept from his mind all thought of the revolver

at his belt, and he went into the man with both fists, his blue eyes

blazing. He landed right and left to the face, then went staggering

away, groaning, as Cowley’s heavy boot took him squarely in the side.

Cowley was after him with a roar.

That foul kick infuriated Denis as nothing else had the power to madden

him, and when the ruffian tried the same tactics again his anger drove

new life into his veins. Disdaining to employ such tricks himself, he

lifted a blow through the other’s guard that went straight to the mouth

and sent Cowley reeling back with broken teeth. On into him went Denis,

placing blow after blow, his lips clenched in silent fury and his

fists beating a tattoo on the man’s face.

Cowley lurched into the wall, cursing; flung back, met a smashing left

hook that rocked him on his heels, and then swung himself bodily into

a clinch. At the same instant, Denis stepped into a bearskin heaped

loosely on the floor. Endeavoring to get clear of Cowley’s hug, the

bearskin tripped and brought him down on the floor—underneath.

The breath was knocked out of Denis by the impact. He lay gasping and

helpless while Cowley, above, hit him twice heavily. Then the ruffian

gripped Denis by the throat in an effort at systematic choking. Aware

of his advantage, without pity, he was deliberately trying to get Denis

out of the way.

Vainly and ineffectually Denis struck upward—a man flat on his back

cannot hit much of a blow. Cowley tore at him with snarling oaths, the

great fingers digging into his throat until it seemed that his flesh

was coming asunder. His breath was stopped.

With all things going black, and the black changing to specks of fire

that danced through his brain, a final coherent thought came to him. It

was the recollection of his revolver.

His fumbling hands went to the lanyard in blind desperation. Even in

that moment Denis fought against himself; he must not fire! He must

take Cowley alive, he must bring in this man a prisoner. With that

great thought pounding against his brain, Denis pulled out the gun and

struck upward with it wildly.

Cowley caught the full effect of that blow. The fore sight of the

revolver took him just above the temple and ripped to the bone. Again

Denis struck out blindly, and again the heavy revolver landed, almost

in the same place.

Those two blows were enough. Denis felt the terrible grip on his throat

relax, and felt Cowley’s weight tumble away from him. Little more than

conscious himself, he rolled over and dragged himself up by the logs of

the wall.

He leaned against the wall, hanging on weakly and panting for breath,

fighting against the terrible faintness that oppressed him and

threatened to conquer his reeling brain. That life-and-death struggle

had all but drowned him.

Gradually his sight cleared, as air returned to his gasping lungs.

There at his feet lay Cowley, stretched out, his head bleeding. Denis’

first thought was that he had struck too hard; dropping to his knees,

he breathed quick relief at finding Cowley’s heart beating. The man was

only stunned.

A glance at the clearing showed no sign of Ballard’s forces. After all,

that battle had taken only a few moments, though it had seemed an age

to Denis.

For a little he stood gazing down at Cowley, while strength came back

to him and his throbbing lungs drank in the sweet air. To one side

lay the handcuffs where he had dropped them. Picking them up, he drew

Cowley’s wrists together and snapped the bracelets in place.

“I’ve landed him at last,” he muttered, with a deep sigh of relief.

“And it’s a lucky thing for me that I made sure of Smoking Duck first!

I can’t leave this fellow to bleed to death, though.”

Searching through Cowley’s pockets, he discovered a ragged bandanna.

With this and his own handkerchief he bandaged the man’s bleeding

scalp, roughly but effectively. While doing so, Cowley’s eyelids

fluttered, then opened.

“Lie still!” cautioned Denis. “You can get up in a minute.”

Cowley lifted his wrists, saw the handcuffs, and relaxed with a low

growl. When the bandaging was finished, Denis went to the door of

the smaller room and unbarred it. Smoking Duck still reposed on the

floor, wide awake and glaring like a trapped beast. Denis turned to the

watching Cowley.

“Come along, now, and get in here! Ballard may show up at any minute,

and I want you off my hands——”

“Ballard!”

Cowley sat up, fright stamped anew in his coarse features.

“Ye ain’t goin’ to let ’em have me, Mister Trooper? Fer the love of——”

“Shut up!” snapped Denis curtly. “Ballard and his friends won’t lay a

finger on you, I’ll promise you that. You join your friend and fellow

citizen in here, and go to sleep. I’ll attend to the rest.”

Cowley looked at him. Into the man’s rough face crept a slow gleam of

admiration as he met the steady gaze of Denis.

“Mister, ye sure are some man!” he exclaimed. “Ye got me—ye got me

proper, and I give ye the best I had at that. I thought I’d slide out

o’ here with a good wad, but ye sure played the game hard. No, I reckon

I got to take my med’cine now, and I ain’t got any kick comin’. You

blasted redcoat!”

With this grudging tribute to his conqueror, Crowley lifted himself

and staggered into the smaller room, sinking down beside Smoking Duck.

Denis shut the door and dropped the heavy bar into place.

The clearing was still empty of life outside the shack. Sinking down on

one of the two bunks, Denis rested his aching head in his hands.

“The worst of the job is done,” he thought, “unless—unless that

lynching party is after gore. If they are, it looks to me as if they’ll

have to get it. By Jasper, I have Cowley safe, and I mean to keep him!”

He lifted his head at sound of a distant shout. Then, picking up his

Ross rifle, he laid it across his knees and waited, facing the doorway.

CHAPTER XIV.

Ballard Shows Fight.

DENIS STEWART was unutterably weary, both physically and mentally.

He had been on a tremendous strain for the past three days, and the

sleep which he had gained had been fitful and at odd intervals. He had

drawn heavily on his splendid physique, and as he waited for Ballard’s

coming he realized that he could not endure another physical struggle.

Nor did he intend to.

“If I can’t down him by sheer will power, I’m gone,” he thought

wearily. “If I add a bit of target practice, I may pull through—but it

may not come to that.”

No false hopes were his. He knew the temper of those settlers, and knew

that they would be savagely determined to get hold of Cowley. He was

there to prevent their doing so—that was all.

Another shout sounded, closer this time, and another. Denis realized

that they were trailing Cowley, having found the creek entrance and

evidently being without knowledge of what lay ahead. He sat quietly,

gazing through the open doorway at the sunny clearing, and waited.

There was a note in those shouts which he did not like, a menacing,

bloodhound note which spelled danger. This was a man hunt, firing the

hunters’ blood with ferocity, demanding a victim, knowing neither

reason nor mercy. And at the end of the trail sat Denis, his blue eyes

cold as ice.

Then he sighted the hunters.

They appeared in a group, running, and halted abruptly at the edge of

the clearing as they scanned the cabin. One of the men, that same “Ed”

who had on the previous evening pierced through Denis’ similarity to

his brother, had left his arm in a sling, but held a revolver in his

right hand.

That silent cabin evidently puzzled them, and they were not sure

whether they had run Cowley to earth, or whether he had taken horse

and fled. They discussed matters; then, at a gesture from Ballard, the

other three scattered and took to cover along the edge of the clearing.

Ballard himself, rifle under his arm, stepped out and walked toward the

shack, his eyes flitting over it searchingly.

“If Cowley was here with his rifle, Ballard would be a dead man—and

knows it,” thought Denis admiringly. “There’s one brave man, at all

events!”

Ballard evinced no hesitation, though he must have known that he was

taking his life in his hand by that open advance. He strode across the

clearing, and paused at the doorway, too dazzled by the sunlight to

make out objects within.

“Come in, Ballard!” spoke up Denis quietly. “Come in; this is Stewart

speaking. But leave your men where they are.”

Ballard stared in blank astonishment, as his eyes finally made out the

figure of Denis sitting on the bunk opposite the door. With one swift

glance around the otherwise empty room, he stepped inside and eyed

Denis.

“Well, for the love of Mike!” he ejaculated slowly. “Thought you had

vamosed down the river last night.”

“No,” smiled Denis. “I borrowed one of your canoes and left it on the

shore, half a mile below here. You’ll find it waiting.”

“Hang the canoe!” snapped the other. “Where’s Cowley? We want that

cuss.”

“That’s really too bad,” returned Denis pleasantly, keeping his finger

on the trigger of the rifle across his lap. “You won’t find him.”

“Eh?” Ballard’s face set savagely. “Has he cleared out o’ here?”

“Not exactly. By the way, there’s some coffee on the stove. Help

yourself.”

Ballard was puzzled by this cool reception. With a bare nod, he crossed

to the stove and poured out some of the bitter black coffee, swallowing

it at a gulp. Then he set down the cup, his eyes fastened on the barred

door.

“What’s behind that door, Stewart?”

Denis shifted his rifle a trifle.

“Hold your rifle just as it is, Ballard!” he said, his voice biting

like a whip. “Cowley is behind that door.”

The settler stiffened. His eyes went to Denis in keen surmise, noted

the rifle trained on him, and rested on the eyes of Denis. The two

looked at each other steadily, neither wavering. But Ballard did not

lift his rifle.

“Look a’ here, Stewart; we’d better have a little talk. I want to know

where you stand, and I want to know mighty quick.”

“I’m not standing at present,” and Denis smiled. “I’m sitting on

Cowley’s bunk. Meanwhile, you have the floor, and I’m ready to listen.

Shoot ahead!”

“I’ll do it,” nodded Ballard, his face hard and inflexible. “You know

what we come here for, and why. Mebbe you don’t know what happened at

the foot o’ the lake this mornin’, do ye?”

“I do,” assented Denis quietly. “I believe you shot at Cowley.”

“Uh-huh. And the skunk put a bullet into Ed’s shoulder, curse him! Now

we aim to life him in a rope necklace, where he belongs, and we don’t

aim to be interfered with, none whatever. I hope you get me.”

Denis smiled again—that same deceptive smile.

“I understand you perfectly well, Ballard. You intend to commit murder

by hanging Cowley. Cowley may deserve it, of course, but I’d hate to

see you four men getting into court on a murder charge.”

Ballard stared at him.

“Out with it, Stewart—what’s your position? You ain’t figgering on

playin’ any low-down tricks, are you?”

“Quite the contrary, Ballard. I came here this morning and arrested

Smoking Duck, a half-breed. I then arrested Cowley, when he returned

from meeting you. The two are in the next room together. Cowley has

been making white whisky up here, or what passes for whisky with the

Indians, and has been trading it for peltries.”

“Making whisky?” ejaculated Ballard. “You sure?”

“You’d better take a look at what’s left of the still and whisky around

in back. As I told you last night, I’m representing my brother, Big

Ben. Also, I’m representing the law. That’s exactly where I stand,

Ballard.”

The other looked steadily at him.

“There’s four of us, all told, and one o’ you,” he rejoined slowly.

“D’you mean to say you’re goin’ to stop us takin’ Cowley?”

“Exactly,” nodded Denis.

“Mebbe you figger on releasin’ Cowley and the ’breed to take a hand?”

“They are my prisoners, Ballard. They remain my prisoners—in that room.

I have promised them protection from your lynching party, and intend to

keep my promise.”

“Then all I can say is, you’re a durned fool,” exploded Ballard

angrily. “We’re goin’ to get Cowley, hear me? If you start any foolin’

like you talk about, we’ll pile into you and make you wish you was

somewhere else——”

“Don’t forget, I’m representing the law here,” interposed Denis.

The settler spat scornfully.

“Law—thunder! You ain’t representin’ nothin’, no more’n I am! Just

’cause your brother is Trooper Stewart don’t give you no license to

parade around in them clothes, does it? Not much. You ain’t no soldier

at all; you’re just an ordinary man like me, and a blamed fool to boot.

Are you goin’ to get out the way or not?”

Denis smiled again.

“I’m very sorry, but I must refuse your invitation to move, Mr.

Ballard. Please observe that this rifle of mine is cocked, and is

trained on your left knee. Now step outside and tell your friends what

you’ve heard.”

Without a word more the settler turned and departed scornfully.

Striding a dozen feet from the shack door, he waved an arm.

“Come on in, boys!”

The other three appeared, and Ballard went to meet them. Denis watched

their meeting and saw that Ballard was evidently describing what

he had found in the cabin. The other three men broke into strident

laughter—and that was a bad sign.

Denis rose and walked to the door, pausing just outside. All four

turned to gaze at him, and he held up a hand.

“Just a moment, my friends,” he called pleasantly. “Do you see that

stump, twenty feet to your right?”

The stump which he indicated was small, and from one side a jagged

splinter of wood stood up for six inches. It was white spruce, plain to

see, only a hundred feet from the shack.

“Just watch that stump for a moment,” went on Denis.

Lifting his rifle to his shoulder, he sighted at the splinter and

pressed the trigger—seemingly without an instant’s hesitation. At the

crack the splinter seemed to blow away into nothing.

“Thank you for your kind attention,” smiled Denis. “That’s all.”

A moment’s silence greeted this display of shooting ability. Denis

turned and went back to the bunk, seating himself as before, facing the

door.

The four men conferred together. Then, with another laugh, they marched

forward to the shack, Ballard in the lead. Denis waited until they came

close to the doorway, then he lifted his rifle.

“One moment, please, gentlemen!”

They halted. Ed, the wounded man, called in rough but earnest tones:

“None o’ the old stuff, Stewart! ‘We know darned well you ain’t a-goin’

to shoot us, so don’t try no bluff. We don’t want to hurt you.”

“An’ we know you ain’t no soldier, so cut it out,” added another.

“All that is perfectly true,” Denis smiled. “Take a look at my

rifle—you see where it is pointing?”

They squinted in at him, Ballard leaning over. Denis was pointing his

rifle at the doorsill.

“What you say is quite correct,” he went on steadily. “I wouldn’t shoot

you down at all. But I am equally correct in saying that you won’t get

Cowley unless you shoot _me_ down—which I don’t think you’ll do by a

good deal. I have several cartridges in this rifle, perfectly good

ones, and you’ve seen that I know how to shoot.

“Of course, you can rush me. Very likely you will. But let me impress

on you just one thing. I can fire at least two shots before you reach

me, and then I have a revolver for quick work. The first man of you who

sets his foot on that door threshold will get a bullet in it—in his

foot. It’ll make a nasty wound, too. Step right along, Ballard! You’ll

have to murder me to get Cowley, you know. Step up, gentlemen!”

No one accepted the invitation.

The seated figure of Denis, the rifle leveled and waiting, gave them

pause. By his steady voice and cold blue eye they knew that he was in

deathly earnest. The first to step on the threshold would probably be

crippled for life.

“Hurry up!” snapped Denis suddenly. “Ballard, you’re the prime mover of

this lynching expedition, so step along with you! If you don’t choose

to chance it, put a bullet into me. You set out to do murder, so here’s

your opportunity. Step out, Ballard!”

“Don’t ye do it!” cried one of the men hastily. “He _means_ it—look at

his face! Don’t ye do it!”

Most certainly Denis meant it, and his resolution was reflected in his

battered face. Under the blaze of his cold eyes the four men paused,

irresolute.

Then, with an oath, Ballard shoved forward, throwing up his rifle.

“You shoot me an’ you get a bullet!” he cried.

“Step up!” said Denis coldly.

The settler heaved forward, but his face was whiter than that of Denis,

and sweat was on his brow. With a quick motion he raised his right foot

over the threshold, brought it down, and then poised it an inch from

the floor.

“Touch the floor!” said Denis. “I’m ready.”

Ballard heaved his shoulders forward, straining, as if some invisible

wall were holding him back; then—he turned and stepped away.

“Go to thunder!” he snapped. “Come on home, boys. I guess Stewart is

competent to get that skunk into jail without us helpin’.”

Denis lay back weakly in the bunk and watched them go.

CHAPTER XV.

The Back Trail.

“SORRY, Cowley, but you’ll have to wear those clear into headquarters.

I wouldn’t trust you an inch without ’em, either.”

Denis smiled genially at the swindler, who grunted sheepishly.

With Smoking Duck, they were seated about the ruins of Cowley’s table,

enjoying the repast of venison and coffee which Denis had prepared.

Ballard and his friends had departed to the foot of the lake. Convinced

of their going, Denis had taken a plunge in the creek and freshened

himself, then had set about getting a meal.

He ate amid due precautions, however. Cowley wore his irons. Smoking

Duck, with his hands free to eat, sat in the corner across the room

from Denis’ rifle.

“I heard what you said to them fellers,” said Cowley gruffly. “Mister,

I take off my hat to ye. As I said, I’ll have to take my med’cine, an’

I’ll hold it agin’ ye for a while, too—but you’re some man, believe me!

Any one who can lick Jim Cowley, an’ then pull off the stunt ye pulled

off on them——”

“Forget it!” smiled Denis.

“Ye would ha’ shot, wouldn’t ye?”

“Maybe I would,” nodded Denis, keeping a wary eye on Smoking Duck.

Before he could say more he was startled by a shadow’ at the doorway.

Catching at his rifle, he whirled—to see the grinning face of the

half-breed, Napoleon McShayne.

Behind McShayne were two other figures. One was the Slave Indian whom

Denis had encountered on the upper Hay River, old John Tadeteecha, the

other was a Slave unknown to Denis. These last two paused outside,

while Napoleon entered.

Before the “Whatcheer!” of greeting had been exchanged, Denis had

swiftly leaped at a scheme which would relieve him of much labor and

trouble. No more speech passed for a moment, Napoleon filling a pipe

with whittled tobacco; then, seeing that Smoking Duck had finished his

meal, Denis ordered him to stand up.

“Tie that fellow’s hands behind his back, Poleon!” he directed. “Tie

’em tight, and do the job well!”

When the scowling Petwanisip was safely secured, Denis ordered him and

Cowley outside, following them promptly.

“Now’, Poleon,” he went on, “you go around to that left-hand lean-to,

and you’ll find a very good bunch of fur. Haul it all out here. You go

and help him. John; I expect you traded some of those furs yourself,

didn’t you? Well, you’ll get no more whisky here. Hop along, all of

you!”

The two Slave Indians grinned as if at some excellent joke, and

followed Napoleon. The three broke into the fur cache, and presently

began to haul forth bale after bale of fur. Most of the pelts were

common, two or three bales being separately wrapped and proving to

contain some dark marten and cross fox pelts of better promise.

Two of these better bales Denis handed over to Napoleon, as the pay

which he had promised for assistance rendered. The second Slave gave

his name as Tommy, and it proved that he had come to get some whisky in

return for a few sorry muskrat pelts. Dennis addressed him straightly:

“Tommy, you clear out of here in a hurry! These pelts are going to stay

here till your people come for them. Spread the word that whoever has

traded to Cowley for whisky can come and get his furs back; that ought

to be simple enough, because each fur is marked by the man who caught

it. Don’t try any stealing, or you’ll go to jail. Run along now!”

Tommy departed toward the creek, wondering.

“You ain’t goin’ to hand back all them peltries!” groaned Cowley,

seeing the fruits of his long illegal labors thus scattered. “You got

to take ’em along, by law——”

“I’m the law in this case,” snapped Denis. “You shut up! John, you and

Napoleon come here!”

The two stood before him, grinning vacuously.

“I have to take these two prisoners up the Hay to my father’s

homestead—you know the place, John. Did you take that message to my

father?”

Old John nodded his head, and reported that all was well at the

homestead. Denis continued:

“Napoleon, I want you to paddle them up in your dugout. John and I will

come with you in my canoe. I’ll have to go all the way without sleep,

and I won’t be able to put in any work at the paddle. After we get

there, my brother will want to take these men on to the Peace River,

and will probably hire you to help him. You take us up, as I have said,

and I’ll promise you good pay in goods and tobacco. How about it?”

Neither of the aborigines was anxious to work, but on the other hand,

Denis represented the law to them, and it is not wise to refuse aid to

the law.

Five minutes later, with the two prisoners safely barred in the smaller

room, Denis rolled up and lay down across the door. They were to start

up lake at sunset, and until that time he was going to make up sleep

in anticipation of his long watch on the river trail, for he would not

dare trust either Indian to guard the prisoners.

“By Jasper!” he thought sleepily. “I’ve made good for Ben, after all.

But, believe me, I’ve changed my mind about going into the mounted.

Yes, sir; I’m contented to remain a plain, unadorned American—this

law-and-order business is just a bit too strenuous for Trooper Stewart,

substitute!”

The End.

A RECORD-BREAKING BEET

A RED beet that weighs eight and one-half pounds was grown by Mrs.

Peter Glatfelter, of Spring Grove, Pennsylvania. It is twenty-two

inches long, and twice as many inches in circumference. She says she

has not been able so far to find a pot large enough to boil it in.

Skates, Skis, and a Saphead

BY William Wallace Cook

DEEPLY steeped in gloom perfectly described the condition of young

Nixon J. Peters. Loneliness and bitter regret pervaded his soul as he

sat by himself on the rear seat of the flying sleigh and thought of

what might have been. He had reason to believe that he was the best

skater and ski jumper entered in the winter sports’ contests at Devil’s

Lake, on the preceding afternoon, and yet he had lost both main events

by an apparent failure to look well to his equipment at the last

moment. Every one had expected that he would blunder somewhere, and so

no one was greatly disappointed; that is, no one except Nixon J. Peters.

Almost at the take-off of the jump, one of Nixon’s skis had broken.

He had taken a wild header, and landed in a snow bank with heels in

the air. A big laugh had been the result. Also, he had cast a skate at

the critical moment of the skating race, and the other contestants had

slid past him, Porter Markham in the lead. This same Porter Markham,

too, had won the ski jump. Now, Porter Markham was on the front seat of

the sleigh, driving blithely, and exchanging jest and small talk with

Hesther Morton, who sat beside him. Truly, Nixon J. Peters’ lines had

fallen in hard places!

Nixon was “Nix” to those who knew him best. Often he suffered the

crowning indignity of being referred to as the “Saphead.” He had heard

the unlovely nickname applied to him many times while digging himself

out of the snow bank. It had punctuated the merriment released by his

sorry mishap. Hesther Morton had joined in the riot of laughter. Nixon

knew this only too well, for she was the first person he had seen after

digging the snow out of his eyes. For Hesther to be amused at his

expense—well, that was something that hurt.

Then, while seeking, with dogged resolution, to retrieve himself on

the steel runners, a strap had broken, and a skate had shot off across

the glittering ice. Peters had slipped and slammed around on the

course like a crazy curling stone, finally cutting the feet out from

under a fat spectator, who called him Saphead right to his face! Ah,

what a wind-up for a sorry afternoon! Peters clenched his hands in

his bearskin gloves and crouched down on the rear seat in a fruitless

effort to efface himself.

He was nineteen, and Porter Markham was twenty. They both worked for

Uncle Silas Goddard, who had a ranch in Montana, and made a business

of sending range horses into North Dakota to be halter broken and sold

to the settlers. Goddard was “uncle” to all his men, in the sense that

gives an avuncular character to every genial, middle-aged person who

looks after the welfare of younger employees.

In the early summer, Uncle Silas had sent a hundred horses into North

Dakota. Business had not been good, and late fall found half the horses

still on hand. These horses were being wintered at the Morton ranch,

on marsh hay, cut and stacked by Peters, Markham, and Reece Bailey,

who had been sent by Uncle Silas to take care of the horse herd. When

spring came, there was a promise of turning off every head of the stock

at a good profit.

The winter, so far, had not been particularly lonely for the Montana

men. The snows of December had been light, and it had been possible

for the horses to paw out considerable forage in the hills. January,

however, brought in a good fall of “the beautiful,” and it had been

necessary to corral and shelter the animals and to go extensively into

the feeding.

Reece Bailey, Uncle Si’s foreman, found time to play cribbage with

Lance Morton, Hesther’s father; and Peters and Nixon acquired

leisure for skating and skiing, popular sports at their home ranch

in the Rockies. A river—it would have been a creek in a country of

large streams—flowed through the Morton holdings, and its glassy

surface offered a resistless invitation to the steel runners. As

for the skiing, there were plain and hill for running, climbing,

and glissading. While Bailey and Morton were busy at their eternal

“fifteen-two, fifteen-four,” Peters and Markham were skating or

skiing, often with Hesther, who was fond of both sports. The girl, if

appearances were to be believed, was rather fond of Markham, also, but

had few smiles to waste on Peters.

In his bashful, blundering way, Peters tried to make himself agreeable

to Hesther. He was big and awkward, however, and had tow-colored hair,

a slow wit, and few graces of speech or manner. His efforts to impress

Hesther were overwhelmed by the never-failing persiflage and the rakish

dress and carriage of handsome Porter Markham. Markham possessed

a confidence in himself that was sublime, a confidence that shone

brilliantly in contrast with the clumsy ineffectiveness of Nixon J.

Peters.

Peters realized this, and nourished a bitter grudge against his

physical and mental shortcomings. He used to dream of a fire at the

ranch, in which he posed as a hero, and bore the fair Hesther to

safety from the ranch house, through a furnace of flames. Then, in his

visions, he pictured the girl as taking his hand and humbly asking his

forgiveness for her failure to perceive his sterling qualities from the

first. During such moments of illusion the Saphead was almost happy.

But the ranch house never took fire, and the chance to prove himself a

hero by rescuing Hesther Morton was denied by fate.

In mid-January, however, an opportunity presented itself, through the

winter sports at Devil’s Lake. Markham and Peters entered themselves in

the ski-jumping contest and skating race. They drove the fifty miles

which separated Morton’s from the lake, and Hesther went with them, to

see the “carnival of sports” and to spend a night or two with relatives

in Devil’s Lake City. Again Peters had dreams; but now, on the homeward

drive, every hope was shattered, and he longed for a period of blank

obscurity and complete retirement.

He could have declared that one of his skis had been tampered with,

and that one of his skate straps had been all but cut through with the

point of a knife. Examination made him sure of both facts, yet it had

not occurred to him to “sob.” He had blundered in not making certain

of his skis and skates beforehand, so he could not see how any one but

himself was at fault. As he crouched in the back seat of the sleigh he

considered requesting Uncle Silas Goddard to recall him to the Montana

headquarters. There, at least, he would be rid of Markham, and cut off

forever from the demoralizing and disdainful eyes of Hesther.

Yes, he would go back to the home ranch, and he would do this in

spite of something which he knew, and which was very important to his

future. It was common knowledge that a place of preferment was to be

given by Uncle Silas either to Peters or to Markham—a foremanship at

a newer ranch, with a chance to acquire an interest in the horses and

cattle. Reece Bailey was watching Peters and Markham, and on his report

Uncle Silas would act. To retire from the North Dakota venture of the

ranchowner now would cut Peters off entirely from promotion, and drop

the plum in Porter Markham’s hand. But Peters, in the bitterness of

his heart, was allowing nothing aside from his own peace of mind to

influence him. Yes, he would ask Uncle Silas to recall him to Montana.

“You still there, Nix?” Markham suddenly asked, turning to look

rearward.

Peters grunted.

“You’re so blamed quiet,” went on Markham, with a laugh, “that I

reckoned you might have taken another header into the snow, back a ways

on the trail.”

Hesther joined in the laugh, and, in spirit, poor Peters writhed.

The short day was closing, and the sun went down beyond the white

horizon in cold glory. They were five miles from Morton’s, and Markham

had driven the horses so hard that they were nearly fagged. They

breathed wheezingly, and frost coated their heaving sides. The pace

dragged, in spite of Markham’s relentless use of the whip.

“Anyhow,” spoke up Peters suddenly, “you might think of the team a

little. Porter. They’re near tuckered.”

“Who’s doing this driving?” cried Markham, “I never yet had to ask a

saphead for advice in handling horses.” And again the whip fell on the

straining flanks.

Peters clenched his fists in the bearskin gloves. It occurred to him

that he could lift Markham bodily out of the front seat, take his

place, and do the driving himself; but he did not.

The horses struggled on, and in the falling dark the travelers topped a

“rise” that gave them a dim view of the buildings of Morton’s ranch. A

light showed in one of the ranch-house windows like a star, and toward

it Markham drove, and presently halted at the door.

“Now that I’ve handled the reins all the way from Devil’s Lake, Nix,”

remarked Markham, as he jumped out, and helped Hesther to alight, “I

allow it’s up to you to take care of the team. Cold, Essie?”

“Not a bit,” the girl answered, and hurried toward the door. Markham

followed her, and Peter drove on to the stable.

As he unhitched and brought the horses into the shelter, he was a

little surprised to discover that there were no other animals in the

place. The team was Morton’s, but Bailey’s cow horse, together with

those of Peters and Markham, should have been in the stable; unless

Bailey was out at the corral and shelter sheds, looking after the fifty

range horses that were kept there.

Peters lighted a lantern, removed the harness from the horses, and,

after putting hay in the mangers, began rubbing the animals down with

an old gunny sack. He was hard at this when a call reached his ears

from the house: “Peters! This way—on the jump!”

It was Markham’s voice, and there was a note of alarm in it that

startled Peters. Lantern in hand, he hurried out of the stable and made

his way to the house. Flinging the door wide, he crossed the threshold

into the ranch-house sitting room.

“What’s wrong, Porter?” he asked.

The “cannon-ball” stove glowed with heat. That, and the bright oil

lamp, dazzled Peters’ eyes for the moment, and he could not see what

was going on in the room.

“Bailey has been hurt,” came the voice of Markham. “Every horse in the

herd has been driven off by thieves—and they even took Bailey’s mount

with the rest. Biggest outrage that ever happened in these parts! I’d

like to know what the blamed country is coming to!”

The blur lifted from before Peters’ eyes. He saw Bailey, his face

twisted with pain, lying on a couch. Mrs. Morton bent over him, bathing

a wounded shoulder from a basin of hot water. Her husband was walking

up and down, fuming and sputtering. Markham stood beside the couch,

looking down at the foreman with a queer expression on his face.

Hesther, all excited, was removing her wraps with shaking hands.

“Horses stolen!” gasped Peters, dazed by the weird calamity. “How could

it happen? Is Bailey badly hurt?”

“Don’t stand there gawping!” fussed Morton. “Something has got to be

done, and it’s up to you and Markham to do it. A gang of scoundrels

from across the line made off with the stock; and it’s been no more

than three hours since it happened. Take my team and get to Roscommon.

The sheriff’s got to be notified. Bailey says the thieves are making

for the north, and if you and Markham are quick a posse can get between

the gang and the boundary line. For heaven’s sake, Peters, wake up!”

Peters shook himself, put down the lantern, and came to the side of the

couch.

“Why don’t Markham wake up?” he asked. “Hasn’t he suggested anything

yet?”

“Nothing to suggest,” Markham answered, flashing a sharp look at

Peters. “It’s twenty miles to Roscommon, and no chance of getting there

ahead of the thieves and the stolen stock. The only animals we can put

our hands on are the two that brought us from Devil’s Lake, and they

are done up. You know that, Peters.”

“What about using skates or skis?” inquired Peters. “By thunder, there

_is_ a way of getting to Roscommon in time to help the sheriff head off

the stolen stock!”

II.

There was a dominant, compelling note in the voice of Peters. It

was so unexpected in its assertiveness that every one in the room

was startled. His washed-out blue eyes fenced aggressively with the

snapping black eyes of Markham.

“Skates or skis!” repeated Markham, his upper lip curling. “Why, it’s

all of thirty miles to Roscommon, if you follow the crooks o’ the

river! And how much would you figure it by skis, if you crossed Bear

Butte instead of going around it? Talk sense, if you know how, Nix!

Don’t forget the fellows who rustled our stock have three hours the

lead.”

“How far will three hours of driving in this snow get the stolen herd?”

returned Peters. “The thieves will have a tough job of it. They——”

Bailey twisted his flushed face from under the ministering hands of

Mrs. Morton. “The varmints are goin’ north by the Long Knife Dry

Wash,” he said, his voice shaking with the pain of his wound. “That’s

only three miles west of Roscommon. If you boys could get word to the

sheriff somehow, I reckon he might head off the raiders with a posse.

But if you do anything, you’ll have to do it quick. Porter,” and his

eyes swerved to Markham, “I’m lookin’ to you—Uncle Si Goddard is

lookin’ to you. Nigh on to five thousand dollars’ wuth of horses are

being pushed to’rds the border, and here I’m helpless to do a thing.”

“It don’t seem possible to do a thing, Reece,” returned Markham. “If

we could round up a crowd of men in short order, and take after the

thieves on fresh horses, like enough we might overhaul ’em. But where’s

the riding stock? Why, Morton’s nearest neighbor is ten miles away!”

Peters flashed a disapproving glance at Markham, pulled off his

bearskin gloves, and slumped down in a chair by the stove. From the

pockets of his overcoat he took his skates, also a new strap he had

secured in Devil’s Lake City. Quickly he replaced the broken strap with

the new one.

“You going to try and get to Roscommon by river, Nix?” Morton inquired.

“I figure the chances are better that way than going over Bear Butte

on skis,” Peters answered. “The river’s clean of snow, and mostly the

ice is like a lookin’-glass. I’m going to do my best to get word to the

sheriff and to start a Roscommon doctor this way to look after Bailey.”

“You’re locoed!” growled Markham. “It s all right to get a doctor for

Reese, here, but there ain’t a chance to save the stock this side of

the line. Let the raiders get it across the boundary, and then take the

matter up with the Canadian Mounted Police. That’s my advice.”

“If you wait till the stock is out of this country,” put in the

rancher, “there won’t be a chance.”

“Not a chance on earth,” agreed Bailey. “That outfit o’ thieves knowed

exactly what they was about. Everything was cut and dried, and somebody

sure tipped ’em off regardin’ the layout here. I’ll bet a thousand

ag’inst a chink wash ticket that them bronks will be took care of

across the line so’st they can’t be located by nobody. Them thieves

picked a time when I was alone at the shelter sheds and Porter and Nix

was to the winter sports at the lake. They dropped me out o’ my saddle

without any whys or wherefores, and then made off with my mount and

sent a man to the stable for Peters’ and Markham’s ridin’ horses. By

the time I covered the mile back to the ranch house the stock was well

on the way north. I—I——”

He broke off abruptly, clenching his teeth hard as a spasm of pain ran

through his body.

“I’ll get another coat,” remarked Peters, rising from his chair and

starting for the door that led to his room. “It won’t be possible to

make any kind of time in a long overcoat like this.” He disappeared.

Markham came to the side of the couch. “If Peters has a chance, Reece,”

said he, “he’ll make a bobble of some kind and spoil it all. That’s his

way. I better go to Roscommon myself. Peters can use his skates, and

take the river trail, and I’ll use my skis and go over the butte. I

don’t think we have a ghost of a show to head off the stock, but it’s

up to us to see what we can do.”

“That’s the talk!” exclaimed Morton approvingly. “The thieves had help

from this ranch,” he added darkly, tossing a significant glance toward

the door through which Peters had just passed, “and I haven’t got a

whole lot of confidence in at least one man around here.”

“Peters is square,” Bailey averred. “Square as a die. He jest don’t

seem to have the knack for puttin’ his idees across. The man that saves

them bronks, Porter,” he added significantly, “is goin’ to make the

biggest kind of a hit with Goddard.”

“If any one connects with the sheriff at Roscommon in time to save the

bronks,” Markham returned, “it will be me.” He spoke with a confidence

that thrilled every one in the room, and Hesther, if the red in her

cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes were any indication, most of all.

“I’ll be ready,” he finished, moving toward the door, “in about two

shakes.”

“You must have some hot coffee before you start,” said Hesther, “and

I’ll see that it is ready for you.”

Markham was back in the room before Peters had reappeared. He wore a

leather coat, and the bottoms of his trousers were laced inside his

high shoe tops. Trim and handsome he looked, and ready for a grueling

night’s work. Hesther was just placing the coffee on the table, and she

lifted her eyes to flash a glance of admiration at the young ski runner.

“I’ll be ready in a minute, Essie,” said Markham, with a nod and a

smile.

Taking his skis from a corner of the room, he sat down, laid them

across his knees, and proceeded to grease them well from a can which he

had brought into the room and had placed on the stove. While he worked,

Peters came lumbering in.

Peters had donned a ragged sweater, whose collar came up around

his ears. Over this was buttoned a faded and threadbare coat. His

old-fashioned skates were under his arm. From beneath the rim of his

moth-eaten fur cap his tow hair showed in a sort of fringe. The cap

had ear flaps, with strings at their ends. The flaps were loose, and

the strings fluttered as he moved his head. His shoes were of cowhide,

strong and serviceable, but not at all ornamental. He had tied the

bottoms of his trousers to his ankles with pieces of cord.

The contrast between Peters and Markham was very striking. So far as

appearances went, Markham had it “on” Peters by about a hundred to one.

“I’m going, too, Nix,” observed Markham, laying his skis to one side.

“I’ll go over the butte, and I’ve got a month’s pay that says I beat

you into Roscommon.”

“Maybe you will,” returned Peters, starting for the outside door.

There was more bitterness in Peters’ heart. He believed he understood

the situation. Markham had won the ski jump and the skating race, and

now he wanted to round off his triumphs by being first to carry the

news of the horse thieving to the sheriff. Markham was planning a

spectacular bit of work, for Uncle Si Goddard incidentally. Mainly, he

was thinking of the effect of his night’s success on Hesther Morton.

“Wait, Nixon!” called Mrs. Morton. “Essie has got some hot coffee

ready, and you must have a cup before you leave.”

The rancher’s wife was the only one who ever gave much thought to

Peters. She considered him now, when the consideration and confidence

of the others seemed to center wholly in Markham.

“Much obliged, Mrs. Morton,” Peters answered, “but I don’t reckon I’ll

take the time. You see,” he added, as he laid a hand on the doorknob,

“it’s a case where every minute counts.”

Before the good woman could answer, the door had closed behind Peters.

Markham pulled up his shoulders in a shrug as he lifted the cup of

steaming coffee.

“There’s Nixon’s first blunder,” he remarked. “He has a habit of going

it blind, and without giving any preparation to the work ahead of him.”

“I hope he won’t meet with any accident,” murmured Mrs. Morton. “That

boy’s got a good heart, even if he is a little odd.”

“He’ll always be a blunderer and a saphead,” grunted her husband.

“If the stolen horses are recovered, it’ll be Markham who makes it

possible.”

Markham did not tarry long over his coffee. Within a few moments

after Peters left he was out in the nipping air. Hesther, a shawl

over her head, stepped through the doorway to watch while he crossed

the trampled snow around the ranch house and then knelt to thrust the

toes of his shoes in the Bilgeri binding of the skis and to buckle the

ankle straps. He arose presently, and, shouting a farewell to the girl,

glided away over the snowy level gracefully, swiftly, with his ski

stick biting into the snow and propelling him onward.

“He’s doing a man’s work this night,” murmured Hesther, “and he will

win—just as he won at Devil’s Lake City carnival.” Then she went back

into the house, to describe in detail how Peters had lost and Markham

had won in the winter sports’ contests at the lake.

III.

Puyallup River had many twists and turns in the thirty miles which it

covered between Morton’s Ranch and Roscommon. Passing within a stone’s

throw of the ranch house, it flowed almost due north for six miles,

then, entering the rough hill country, it doubled back on its course

for three miles, rounded the base of Rawson’s Bluff, in a four-mile

curve, came east by south around the base of Bear Butte, and then

curved in a northwesterly direction for the last twelve miles that

carried it through the outskirts of the county seat.

Markham, on his skis, could con a direct course to Roscommon,

bisecting the river at three points, and finally climbing the butte for

a long glissade into the town. That glissade, right into the edge of

the settlement, measured ten miles of down grade. The slopes of Bear

Butte were smooth, and directly under its crest the descent was steep.

A mile of this, and then the course fell away more gently.

Markham, if he made good time to the eastern base of Bear Butte, would

very likely reach that particular spot ahead of Peters, for he would

have to travel only seven miles, while Peters was going sixteen. Where

Markham would lose would be in climbing the butte; and where he would

make up his loss would be in the long glissade down the opposite side.

At the river’s edge, Peters screwed the skates into his heels, pulled

the straps tight, and buckled them, then put on his bearskin gloves and

struck out. He was well away toward Rawson’s Bluff before Markham made

his first crossing of the river, near the ranch house.

The ice was in splendid condition. A strong wind had swept it clean

of loose snow, save here and there at the turns, where drifts had

formed. Then a slight thaw, a few days before, had been followed by a

tightening of the cold, and all rough spots had been smoothed away.

Markham, whose steel runners were the very last word in all-metal

skates, excelled as a figure skater. He could cut all sorts of graceful

figures on the ice, and, with Hesther Morton, would do a sort of waltz,

which the girl seemed to consider rare sport. Peters, on the other

hand, was not proficient at that sort of thing. He preferred straight

skating, possibly because he realized that fancy capers were quite out

of his line. The steel, wood, and leather with which he was shod seemed

best adapted to straightaway work, anyhow.

Peters knew every foot of the river between the ranch and Roscommon.

He had covered that long stretch of ice several times while getting

himself in trim for the skating race at Devil’s Lake. There was “white

ice” under the shelter of the bluff and the butte, caused by a fall of

snow while the first crystals were forming. This had been full of air

bubbles, and had been treacherous up to the time the severe frost had

followed the thaw. After that the liquefied snow had congealed into a

sound and superlative smoothness. There was not a spot to be feared on

the entire course.

With long, steady, swinging strokes, Peters swept around the first

turn and came south on the stretch which Markham was to cross in order

to thread a seam through Rawson’s Bluff. But, although the moonlight

was brilliant upon the sparkling snow crust, he could see nothing of

his rival. It might be, he reasoned, that Markham had already effected

his second crossing of the river, and was even then in the gash that

cut through the bluff. Peters ground his teeth, and, with his runners

ringing musically, passed like a gliding specter around the bluff’s

base. Three miles farther, and he might obtain a view of Markham as he

emerged from the shallow defile and pushed over the open levels toward

the butte.

He was having queer thoughts about Markham. Why had the fellow

protested against any attempt to reach Roscommon and notify the

sheriff? Then, in the face of his protests, why had he determined to

pit his skis against Peters’ skates—to accomplish the thing which he

had averred could not be accomplished?

There was but one answer to this, according to Peters’ conclusions.

Markham could not bear to think that Peters _might_ succeed, that he

_might_ win favorable notice from Uncle Silas, and that he _might_ gain

some credit in the eyes of Hesther Morton! Markham was not thinking

of saving the horses; no, he was impressed with the idea of his own

prestige and importance, and he could not take a chance of losing out

to a “saphead.” That was all there was to it, so Peters believed.

A determination to win that race and save the stolen stock grew

stronger and stronger in Peters’ breast. Here, after the miserable

failures at Devil’s Lake, was a most unexpected opportunity to retrieve

himself. It was his business to make the most of it.

Three straight miles lay ahead of him to the westward of the bluff.

Coming down the stretch like the wind, he surveyed the shadowy opening

of the swale, in the hope of catching a glimpse of Markham. But the ski

runner was not in sight. In the distance, the sparkling crest of Bear

Butte could be vaguely determined; yet, between the bluff and the butte

no dusky figure could be seen toiling on the skis.

“He hasn’t cleared the bluff yet,” thought Peters exultantly. “I’m

leading him, by ginger!”

The river, at the end of the three-mile stretch, described a curve like

a gigantic horseshoe. In its first beginning, the stream had attempted

to run west by south; meeting the rough country, its course had been

deflected toward the northwest; then, striking the wide-spreading base

of Bear Butte, it had followed northeast and east on its way around

the huge uplift. On clearing the butte, the Puyallup struck off due

northwest, and so, in a dozen miles, came to Roscommon.

Peters, although he had not timed himself, knew he had been making

excellent speed. He was seventeen miles from the ranch, and coming

rapidly under the shadow of the butte. Markham could scarcely climb

the massive “rise” and glissade into Roscommon ahead of him. So far as

he had been able to discover, Markham was not yet anywhere near Bear

Butte, nor——

“Peters! I say, Peters!”

Peters was amazed. Above his ringing steel a sharp cry echoed in the

frosty air. It was Markham’s voice, and calling his name. Peters dug

into the ice with the heels of his runners and came to a quick halt.

“That you, Porter?” he called.

“Yes, Nix. I’m in hard luck. Stop a minute, will you?”

The voice came from a shadowy overhang at the butte’s foot. Peters

skated toward the black cavity, and was met by the dusky figure of

Markham, limping out of the darkness and across the ice. Markham had

his skis under his arm.

“By George!” cried Peters. “You got here in a hurry! What’s wrong?”

“I fell from a six-foot bank, as I was crossing the river, and

splintered one of my skis,” was the answer, “and I can’t go on with the

wood runners. I reckon I’ll take your skates,” Markham added coolly.

Peters caught his breath. “I reckon you won’t,” he returned, with

spirit. “I’m going on to Roscommon, start the sheriff and a posse for

the dry wash, and get a doctor for Bailey. What do you take me for?”

“A saphead—just a plain, everyday saphead,” said Markham. “Down on the

ice, Peters, and off with those skates! _Pronto_ is the word! There’s

no time to lose!”

Markham had dropped the skis, and stripped a glove from his right hand.

The bare hand was in the pocket of his leather coat. Suddenly, as the

two stood facing each other, the hand emerged from the pocket with a

short, ugly-looking bulldog revolver. Markham leveled the weapon, and

the moonlight glinted frostily on the barrel.

Again Peters caught his breath. He was dazed, bewildered. To be

threatened in that manner by one whom he had believed to be a

friend—or, if not a friend, at least a fellow employee of Uncle Silas

Goddard, with interests in common—was a decided shock.

“You crazy, Porter?” demanded Peters, when he could find his tongue.

“Hardly,” was the reply, with a husky, ill-omened laugh, “it will be

a long time before you reach Roscommon, my laddybuck. Take off those

skates, I tell you! I mean business, Peters!”

There was that in Markham’s words and manner which left no doubt of

the fact that he meant business. Peters was wild with indignation and

anger, but he was also helpless.

“What’ll Reece Bailey say to this, when I tell him?” he asked, dropping

to the ice and working at the skate straps.

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it,” was the response. “Throw

the skates over here when you get ’em off. You had to butt into this

deal with the fool suggestion of getting word to the sheriff, now,

blame you, take your medicine!”

“You’re bound to win,” grunted Peters, “if you have to do it with a

gun! You ain’t square, Markham. I may be a good deal of a saphead, but

I found, when it was too late, that one of my skis and one of my skate

straps had been tampered with at Devil’s Lake. You did that!”

“Why didn’t you tell Hesther about it?” jeered Markham; “or the judges

of the contests? Didn’t you have nerve enough to put up a holler?”

Peters gave the skates a shove across the ice.

Ten feet away, Markham sat down to screw the skates to his heels and

adjust the straps. The revolver lay at his side, and he watched Peters

sharply as he worked.

Peters, a desperate purpose forming in his mind, was awaiting the

moment when he could spring to the attack. He was not to be conquered

in that way. There was plenty of fight in him, and Markham would

discover it to his cost.

Markham worked rapidly. The skates were on, and snugly buckled, and

he was just rising when Peters went after him, with a short run and a

slide. But if Peters was quick, Markham was a shade quicker.

_Crack!_

The revolver exploded in the air, and Peters’ left arm seemed suddenly

to have been scorched with a hot iron. The shock caused him to lose his

footing, and he fell in a sprawl on the slippery surface of the river.

“You would have it!” shouted Markham fiercely. “That’s something more

for you to tell Bailey!”

The last words faded in mellow ring of sliding steel. Peters, sitting

up on the ice, and clasping his numbed arm with his right hand, watched

Markham slip from sight around the curve at the foot of Bear Butte.

IV.

Peters was thinking less of the pain in his arm than he was of the

rascally work of Peter Markham. The fellow must be mad, to make such

an attack! He had planned the whole thing, of course, and had armed

himself before leaving Morton’s. Reaching the butte ahead of Peters, he

had gone into hiding against the moment Peters should come skating down

the river. Then, by way of making his treachery more contemptible, he

had called to Peters for help, only to threaten him with a revolver and

steal his skates.

“You bet I’ll tell Bailey!” muttered Peters. “I reckon this’ll cook

your goose with Goddard, even if you do get to Roscommon in time to

have the sheriff head off the bronks! What can a fellow make of a man

like him, acting thataway?”

With difficulty, Peters removed his coat and shoved up the shirt

and sweater sleeves. The wound was in the forearm, and was bleeding

profusely. With a bandanna handkerchief he bound up the injury tightly,

knotting the handkerchief corners with his fingers and his teeth; then,

getting into his coat again, he began considering his next move.

It was twelve miles by river to Roscommon, and eighteen miles back to

the ranch. Even if it was now useless for him to get to the town, in

order to carry the news of the horse stealing to the sheriff, returning

to Morton’s would have been a fierce pull on his strength, and he dared

not attempt it. He would make his way to Roscommon. If he could reach

the settlement before Markham left it, he would lodge a complaint

against the treacherous scoundrel, and have him held in the town jail.

Peters was burning for revenge. Yes, that is what he would do.

He got up, feeling a little dizzy and faint, and started down the

river. His feet struck against Markham’s skis, and another idea came to

him. Perhaps he could tinker up the splintered ski and use the runners.

After the accident that had lost him the jump at Devil’s Lake, Peters

had bought a little fine wire for the mending of his own broken runner.

That wire was still in his trousers pocket, and it might be that he

could use it in fixing Markham’s splintered ski.

Picking up both runners, and holding the damaged one between his knees,

he struck a match and made a careful examination. The stout ash had

been cracked under the binding mechanism. A few wraps of fine wire

might yet make the runner serve. With his jack-knife, Peters dug a

shallow groove across the ski’s bottom, and in this he imbedded the

half dozen coils of wire that he wove over and over and made fast on

the upper surface.

For himself, he had never fancied that Bilgeri binding. Although

light, and well made, it was not nearly so strong or dependable as the

Lilienfield binding, with which Peters’ own skis were equipped.

Peters’ work had been done at a tremendous disadvantage. He could work

with one hand only, and in lieu of his other hand he made shift to

use his teeth. The moon, although brilliant, left much to be desired

in the matter of light for such fine and exacting labor, and sense

of touch had to help him where that of sight failed. In the main,

however, he did very well, all things considered, and when he had

secured his feet in the bindings he arose on the ash runners with a

feeling of exultation in his breast. Where was the stick? His search

for it carried him to the overhang, and there he found, not only the

ski stick, but two strips of gunny sacking, each heavily knotted in the

middle.

Those strips of sacking rather puzzled Peters. Markham had brought them

as an aid in getting up the steep eastern slope of the butte. But why

had he prepared himself with them if his object was to waylay Peters

and secure the skates?

“Markham always figures a matter out both ways,” Peters reflected. “He

brought the gun to help corral the skates, but, if I happened to beat

him to the butte, then he’d have to keep right on over the rise. If he

couldn’t do one thing, then he was ready to do the other. What’s more,

he splintered that ski a-purpose, and he didn’t do it until he knew

I was behind him at the overhang. He didn’t want me to have a chance

to use the ski, that’s all. It never occurred to him that I’d have

something along to use in patchin’ up the runner. That’s once, anyhow,

that a saphead fooled him.”

Peters shuffled his way to a point beyond the overhang, then paused to

tie the strips of cloth around the skis, knot side down. This maneuver

would help to keep him from sliding backward.

He flashed an upward look at the difficult grade he was to negotiate.

If his heart failed him for a moment, because of his useless arm

and the shock his whole body had suffered because of the wound, it

only resulted in letting him get a firmer grip on his resolution and

strength. The wound was nothing serious, being merely a clean gash

through the fleshy part of the forearm. He would not allow it to

endanger the success of his night’s exploit. Markham must be made to

suffer for his lawlessness, and it was up to Peters to see that he did

not escape.

The first easy slopes of the butte were taken just as one might travel

over level ground—a forward movement, in long, gliding steps. The skis

were merely advanced, never lifted. As the ascent stiffened, Peters

turned out the ends of the runners slightly, in what is known as the

“half fishbone step.” There was a trick in this, and Peters had long

since acquired it. Steeper and steeper became the course as the snowy

slope was climbed, and the full fishbone step was gradually brought

into requisition.

For such a long ascent the work was extremely tiring, and Peters was

forced to do a number of “serpentines,” tacking back and forth, and

executing the difficult “about face” at each turn.

A good deal of time was required in making the climb, but Peters’

handicap of awkwardness had taught him how to be patient and doggedly

resolute in carrying out his aims. He kept unflinchingly to his

tiresome task, and in due course was rewarded by finding himself on the

flat crest of Bear Butte, ready for the long glissade. By this time his

sporting blood was aroused, and he looked forward with keen enjoyment

to the breathlessly swift glide that lay ahead of him.

He rested a few moments, tucked the hand of his injured arm into the

front of his coat, removed the knotted strips from the runners, took

firm hold of the ski stick, and then let himself over the butte’s crest.

With skis so close together that they touched, the point of one leading

the other by a foot, body not bent, but inclined forward, Peters was

off down the steep slope like a bullet out of a gun.

He was at a disadvantage in not having both hands for use with the

stick. Where it was necessary to brake, and avoid a small crevasse

or a bowlder, Peters did it entirely with the skis, by executing the

“telemark swing.” It was not often that he was confronted by such an

emergency, but he was proficient in that method of dodging possible

disaster, and unhesitatingly availed himself of it.

At lightning speed he shot down the butte, the air humming in his ears

and snowy particles stinging his face. His exhilaration mounted higher

and higher. In his delight over the coasting he forgot the stolen

horses, the treachery of Markham, and the reprisal he was counting upon

when he should reach Roscommon. His every faculty was called into play,

and busied itself with the flying skis to the exclusion of everything

else.

The slope flattened, and Peters’ speed lessened perceptibly, although

he was still going at a rate comparable to that of a limited express

train. On and on, mile after mile, his sensation was that of one

falling through space. He scarcely realized that he had any connection

whatever with the white-clad earth beneath him.

At last, in the distance, he saw a twinkling light, and a confused blur

of buildings. Roscommon! The town jumped toward him as though crazily

bent on fouling his course. He gave rather more attention to Roscommon

than to the slope ahead of him, and suddenly he pitched into the air

as the runners hit an obstacle. He fell with the skis braided around

his neck, fell hard upon the cleared tracks of the Roscommon railroad

yards, and so suddenly that he had no time to realize he had gone over

the embankment at the side of the network of rails.

Instinctively he tried to lift himself, only to drop in an awkward

huddle, with a blaze of shooting stars criss-crossing before his eyes.

Then the bright lights faded, and Nixon J. Peters quietly went to sleep.

V.

When Peters awoke, he found himself on a bench in the railroad station.

A local train was expected, and there had been men on the station

platform when Peters shot over the railroad embankment and hit the

tracks. Three or four of the men went forward to investigate the

strange phenomenon, and they were the ones who had brought Peters into

the waiting room. They had no more than laid him down, and stripped off

his skis, when he opened his eyes.

“Sheriff gone to the dry wash yet?” he inquired faintly.

A man bent over him. “I’m Jordan, the sheriff,” said he. “What dry wash

do you mean? Why should I go there?”

“Has—hasn’t Markham reached town?” went on Peters.

“Haven’t seen a thing of Markham. Oh!” Jordan exclaimed. “I know you

now. You are Bailey’s man, Peters, from the Morton Ranch. Why were you

sliding into town, at this time o’ night, on a pair of skis? Thunder!

It was as much as your life was worth! You——”

“A gang of horse thieves ran off our horses—more’n fifty of ’em,” cut

in Peters wildly. “It happened early in the evening. Get a posse,

Jordan, and head off the gang at Long Knife Dry Wash. When Markham

shows up, leave somebody in town to arrest him. He shot me in the arm.

And send a doctor to Morton’s to look after Bailey. He’s wounded, too!

I——”

Then Peters went to sleep again. When he next came to himself, and

picked up the chain of events, he was in a bed in a room at the

Roscommon House. Broad day looked in at the room windows, and Peters

could gaze dreamily out at roofs covered with snow, and sparkling under

the sun’s rays as though covered with diamonds. Hours had passed since

he had had the brief awakening in the railroad station. Now he was

in a comfortable bed, his left arm neatly bandaged, and Toynbee, the

proprietor of the hotel, was sitting beside him.

“Did they get Markham, Toynbee?” asked Peters.

The landlord was reading a newspaper. He jumped in his chair as the

unexpected words reached him from the bed.

“Oh, you’re back, eh?” said he. “You’ve been a long time on the road,

although the doctor said we needn’t to mind. Get Markham? Well, I

guess!” And Toynbee chuckled. “Jordan got him, and four others, along

with the stolen horses. They were pushing through the dry wash when the

sheriff and his party arrived there. You bet they got him, Peters, and

red-handed at that. Big surprise to everybody. Why, Markham had put the

whole thing up! He was back of the entire scheme! It has all come out.

Markham won’t talk, but the rest of the gang feel different. Across the

line there were men waiting to take the horses and rush ’em off where

they’d never be found. Say! I guess you ought to have a medal for what

you did last night! How are you feeling, anyhow?”

Peters was stunned. Porter Markham one of the horse thieves! Could

Peters believe his ears? Markham had had a reason for driving the

horses off their feet on the return from Devil’s Lake. With all the

other stock taken from Morton’s, it had been Markham’s plan to

make the sleigh team useless, so far as a drive of twenty miles to

Roscommon, with news for the sheriff, was concerned; and Markham had

protested against Peters’ plan of using skates in carrying an alarm

to Roscommon; but when the method had been put into effect, in spite

of him, Markham had taken to the skis and had waylaid Peters at the

eastern foot of Bear Butte. In the light of recent events, the motive

for that attack could be seen at an even more treacherous angle.

Markham’s scheme was not to beat Peters to Roscommon with news for the

sheriff, but to keep all knowledge of the robbery from the authorities

until the stolen horses had been delivered across the line. Instead

of making for the town, after securing Peters’ skates, Markham had

followed the river bends beyond the town, to a point where he could

join his rascally confederates with the horse herd.

“How do you feel, Peters?” repeated Toynbee, after waiting a long time

for a reply.

“Mighty nigh locoed,” said Peters.

“No wonder! Say, you hit the railroad iron with your head when you went

over the embankment. Any other head but yours would probably have been

cracked.”

“You can’t crack a saphead,” commented Peters, but not in bitterness.

Next day, when Peters was thinking of getting out of his bed and

helping drive the horses back to the ranch, no less a person than Uncle

Silas Goddard walked into his room. Uncle Silas was an iron-gray man,

big and broad, and with a regular heart under his ribs. He had received

a telegram, signed Reece Bailey, per Morton, and had come to North

Dakota by first train.

There were greetings, not those of a pleased employer for a worthy

employee, but more in line with what one’s next of kin might say in

circumstances altogether creditable. Bailey was “coming fine,” and

would be on the job again in two or three weeks; and Peters, the doctor

said, would be fit as a fiddle in seven days, at the outside. The

horses were on the way back to Morton’s.

“What about Markham?” queried Peters.

Uncle Silas Goddard’s cheery face grew troubled. Well, Markham was

only a boy, and a very foolish one. He had had a hard lesson. No stock

had been lost, and Uncle Silas felt that he ought not to be too hard

on Markham. He was going to let Markham go, on a promise to leave the

country and make something of himself in other parts. Any one at all

acquainted with Uncle Silas might have known he would do that very

thing.

“As for you, Nixon,” the big ranchowner went on, “there’s a job waiting

in Montana for a chap of your heft and disposition. But do you want to

return to the home ranch?” he asked quizzically. “Miss Hesther Morton

sends a very kindly message to you by me. She is sorry for a lot of

things, she says, and hopes to see you right soon.”

But Nixon J. Peters had seen another light. He recalled his saphead

dreams of rescuing Hesther from a burning house, and the shamed red

stained his cheeks to the tow-colored hair.

“Miss Morton, all at once, is wasting her consideration on the wrong

party. Uncle Silas,” said Peters. “I’m for Montana as soon as you want

me there.”

“Good!” exclaimed Uncle Silas, and clasped Peters’ hand with a fervor

that suggested not only good will but hearty congratulations.

SOME INTERESTING FACTS

In Austria women are now employed as undertakers and gravediggers.

The ancients credited the raven with unusual longevity, but modern

investigation shows that it is not warranted. The bird rarely lives

more than seventy years.

United States government irrigation projects completed or under way

represent an expense of eighty-five million dollars and involve the

reclamation of more than two million five hundred thousand acres.

Geese are fattened for market in some parts of Europe by confining them

in dark rooms, to which light is admitted at intervals, causing them to

eat seven or eight meals a day.

Rabbit fur is said to be supplanting wool in felt-hat making in

Australia, where thirty-two factories are in operation. The fur is

considered much superior to the finest merino for this purpose, and

millions of rabbit skins are used annually.

The Ottoman Empire is made up of Turkey in Europe—the strip of

territory stretching across from the Black Sea to the Adriatic—Turkey

in Asia, which includes Arabia, Syria, and Palestine, and provinces in

the isles of Samos and Cyprus are also under the sultan’s rule.

The Municipal Building, New York, is the largest structure under the

jurisdiction of the Bureau of Public Buildings and Offices. It contains

about one thousand offices and has about ten thousand visitors daily.

It is the world’s largest building of its kind.

The Basket-Ball Boss

by Leslie W. Quirk

“THE deal can be closed at your earliest convenience. Very truly

yours.... That’s all, Miss Ticknor. Bring in the letter just as soon as

you write it, please.”

As the stenographer closed the door behind her, Freeman Judd spun his

pivoted desk chair in a half circle, and, with hands clasped across his

stomach, gazed thoughtfully at the calendar on the wall. For a full

minute he sat this way without moving; then, whirling back again, he

pressed the button at the side of his desk.

A freckle-faced, red-headed office boy answered.

“George,” said Mr. Judd, “I guess he’s waited long enough. Tell him to

come in now.”

The office boy grinned appreciatively. A moment later the door opened

to admit a dapper young man, who looked something as Freeman Judd must

have looked twenty-five years before.

The embarrassment as father and son faced each other ended when Judd,

senior, said brusquely, “Sit down, Vern; sit down! Chairs don’t cost

anything in this office. What’s the matter now? What are you here for?”

The boy looked him frankly in the eyes. “Thompson Brothers fired me

this morning.”

If his father was irritated, his face did not betray the fact. “As a

business man,” he grunted, “you don’t seem to be much of a success.”

The boy swallowed. It was like downing a bitter dose of medicine. “You

see, father,” he blurted out, “I’ve come to believe you were right and

I was wrong. I want to start in the business here just the way I did

four years ago.”

“Ah, you do!” Freeman Judd surveyed his son a little grimly. “Suppose

we review this thing, Vern. You’re a rich man’s son. When you went to

college, I gave you a good big allowance. I wanted you to have all the

advantages that I had missed. What did you do there? Did you stick to

anything? Did you learn one thing—one single thing—thoroughly?”

“Not a thing,” admitted Vernon Judd cheerfully, “unless you count

basket-ball.”

“Basket-ball? H’m! I don’t see how that is going to help you make a

success of life. Well, you graduated, though Heaven knows how, and came

in here. Three months later you quit. Things were too slow for you.

Your grandfather had left you a little legacy, and you wanted action.”

The younger Judd chuckled. “Didn’t I get it?”

“You did,” admitted his father, allowing his face the luxury of a

smile; “you got the action and the Wall Street boys got your money.

Since then you’ve tried a dozen things, never holding on to one of them

longer than a month or six weeks. And now you breeze back and ask me to

give you another chance.”

The boy leaned forward earnestly, his mouth tightening into the same

lines of determination that marked his father’s.

“Dad, a week ago I took myself into my room and had a frank talk with

myself. When I was through, I’d made up my mind to quit being a chump

and to turn myself into something useful. I wasn’t fired from Thompson

Brothers’ because I didn’t do my work, but because I wouldn’t stand for

a piece of dirty office politics. I’ve found myself. This time I’ll

stick it out. Do I get another chance, or not?”

Freeman Judd looked the boy over, much as though he were eying a horse.

“Vern,” he said finally, “I never thought I’d do such a thing, but I’m

inclined to give you another go at your old job. I know you’ve got the

goods, and I believe at last——” A knock at the door stopped him. “Come

in, Wallber.”

“Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Judd,” said the head clerk, as he entered,

with an envelope in his hand, “but the man who brought this said it had

to have an answer right away.”

As he made out the letterhead, the boy’s face became a shade paler. His

father scanned the communication with a frown.

“Vern”—the voice had taken a harsher tone—“this is a statement from

Flett & Son. They say you owe them one hundred and fifteen dollars for

some evening clothes, and that if it isn’t paid they will be obliged to

sue.”

“It’s a rotten trick, dad. I bought the stuff eight months ago; I’d

have paid for it, too, if I hadn’t lost my jobs while I was laying

aside the money. I haven’t been dodging them. I explained how it was.

Anyhow, they hadn’t any business sending a bill to you. I’m over age

and——”

His father stood up abruptly. “It’s legalized blackmail,” he snapped.

“They think I’ll pay this rather than allow it to get into the papers.

And they’re right.” He paced up and down the room without speaking.

Suddenly he faced the boy. “Vern, I’ve changed my mind about you. I

don’t want you in here until you can prove to me that you are able to

get a job paying enough to live on, and to hold it for a reasonable

time.”

“But, dad——”

His father held up an interrupting hand. “No use talking. I have

decided. When you have learned to stand alone on your own two feet,

then you may come in with Judd & Company—not before. Any more bills?

No? All right; I’ll pay this one. Then I intend giving you an order on

the cashier for thirty dollars. Take that and buy a railroad ticket

that will land you the greatest distance from New York. I don’t care

where you go; the only condition is that you finally land a job,

and that you keep it for a full six months. That shall be the test.

Understand? Six months in the same position.”

Vernon Judd nodded soberly.

“When you’ve shown you can do that, and have lived on what you earn

without running bills, come back and you’ll find a desk waiting for

you. If you can’t do it, I don’t want to see you again. Well?”

“That’s a fair proposition, dad. Six months at the same job on a living

wage. I’ll do it.”

Freeman Judd sucked in his lower lip. “Here’s your order for the thirty

dollars, then. And remember, Vern, nobody wants to see you win more

than your old dad. Good-by. As you go through the outer office, tell

Wallber I want to see him.”

II.

The round football struck the branch and descended, bouncing merrily

upon the head of the innocent bystander.

“We didn’t mean to, mister,” apologized the small boy who had done the

kicking.

“Don’t mind me. I’d rather get a crack on the head than not.” In spite

of a stomach that lacked breakfast, Vernon Judd managed a smile as he

tossed back the “association” football.

Hard knocks aplenty had toughened Vern since the day the train

dropped him into the bustling Middle Western city, an unknown person,

in an unfamiliar place; and, what was more, he was without trade

or profession. For three days he had been an “extra” hotel porter;

for a week, till the dull season set in, he had opened boxes in a

department-store basement; and twice he had earned scraps of money by

unloading trucks. But of continuous employment he had found none.

He squared his shoulders now at the cheering discovery that both

factories had entrances within a hundred feet of where he was standing.

Along the big shop on his right ran the sign. “Landon Sporting

Goods—Used All Over the World”; across the street, equally large

letters shouted. “Bloss Company—Perfection Sporting Goods—For Sale

Everywhere.”

Both Landon and Bloss, the original owners, were dead; but for years

the managers of the rival factories had waged an advertising war from

Cairo, Illinois, to Cairo, Egypt. Basket-balls, baseballs, footballs,

hockey sticks, bats, golf clubs, boxing gloves, and everything else for

the athlete had been boosted and knocked by each side. And here the two

competitors glowered at each other less than a stone’s throw apart.

To Vern, who all his life had read their advertising and used their

goods, it seemed like coming suddenly upon the Duke of Wellington and

Napoleon Bonaparte.

The job hunter meditated. “Let’s see. The year we had the big

championship team we used the Bloss basket-ball; the year after that we

used the Landon. It wasn’t as good, and we weren’t as good. All right,

Bloss, old boy, you’ll get the first chance.”

He entered boldly. A pugnacious office boy on the other side of a

wooden railing stopped him.

“Whatcha want?” demanded the guardian of the gate suspiciously.

Hard experience had taught Vern that discretion is sometimes half the

battle.

“I want to see the superintendent,” he answered evasively.

“Creighton? Lissen, if you wanta job I’ll save you a lot of time right

off the bat by tellin’ you there ain’t none.”

“You tell Mr. Creighton that Mr. Judd—Mr. Vernon Judd, of New

York—wants to see him,” insisted the caller, with as much haughtiness

as a man without a thin dime can muster.

Reluctantly the office boy slouched toward the door marked “Private.”

“All right,” he said, emerging a minute later. “Go on in.”

Vern had no more than entered the room before he saw that his hopes

were doomed to failure. He had counted upon finding the superintendent

an athletic type of man, to whom his own experience in athletics

might appeal. Instead, he was greeted by a frowning, cigar-chewing

individual, who plainly had never taken an active part in any game

except from the side lines.

“Well,” he snapped, as he thrust some papers under the desk blotter,

“what do you want? A job?” His voice rasped like a file. “Can’t you see

that sign out there? Go to the other entrance between seven and eight

Thursday morning. Don’t take up my time.”

“I know I am taking up valuable time, Mr. Creighton,” Vern returned

quietly, “but I think I’ve had valuable experience that might fit me

for——”

“Haven’t a thing for you. No use talking.” The shrill voice rose

higher. “Not a thing. Nothing at all. _Good_ morning!”

The young man found himself on the street again, with a sense of

injustice rankling in his mind. As he stood there trying to soothe his

temper before tackling the Landon people, his eye caught the end of a

tiny tragedy.

He heard an excited little scream. He saw a white-sleeved arm thrust

frantically from one of the second-story windows of the Landon factory.

He watched a square of snowy linen float out on a passing gust of wind.

For a second it seemed that it would escape the clutches of the waiting

tree and come safely to the ground; but just at the critical moment the

breeze died, dropping the white handkerchief, like an opened parachute,

across a network of autumn foliage. There it rested, twenty feet or

more above the sidewalk and a dozen from the girl at the window.

Vern looked up. The instinct of mere politeness that had first urged

him to offer assistance tautened into enthusiasm. He told himself the

girl was more charming than any girl he had ever seen.

“I’ll get it,” he called encouragingly, though without the slightest

idea in the world how he might bring about that end.

“If you will, please,” she begged. “It’s a bit of real Irish lace, and

I haven’t any business owning it—let alone losing it.”

As he stared at the girl and the handkerchief, the inspiration came.

“Here, buddie,” he said, “lend me your football for a minute.”

Obediently the small boy tossed it over. It was round, but slightly

smaller and not as heavy as the basket-ball to which he had been

accustomed. Also, the handkerchief was much higher than any basket for

which he had tried in a game.

He poised it carefully, swinging it up and down in his two hands to

gauge the weight. Then, with a quick flirt of his arms, he shot it up

and over.

It curved in a long arc and plumped squarely into the middle of the

white patch in the tree. The twigs bent. The handkerchief fluttered

down into his waiting hands.

As he stood there brushing the dust from the fragile fabric, the girl

from Landon’s hurried out to him. “I want to thank you,” she said

gratefully.

He looked at her. Risking the chance of being thought impudent, he said

boldly, “And I want to know you. My name is Judd—Vernon Judd.”

She stared straight into his eyes for a moment, and was apparently

satisfied with what she saw there. “I—I don’t think it will be

difficult,” she said, almost in a whisper, and turned away, confused

and blushing.

“Say, young fella!” Vern turned to the new speaker, who proved to be

Creighton, the disagreeable superintendent of the Bloss factory, his

face now stretching into a smile. “Say! I saw you make that basket-ball

throw. Where did you ever play? What! You mean you were the center of

that champ team, the 1911 five that were never licked? Listen!” He put

his hand ingratiatingly upon the boy’s arm. “We have a basket-ball

team in this factory that’s a world-beater, and we need a new man for

center. Lemme see you throw again, to make sure that other toss wasn’t

a lucky accident. Hey, Murph!”

A carrot-topped head popped out of the window over the entrance. “Get

the big wastebasket, Murph, and hold it out there. I wanta see this guy

make a throw. Come on, you; I’ll give you three chances, because it’s a

hard shot.”

For once in his life, Vern felt nervous. The skill that had made him

star of a star team seemed to have oozed quite away.

“Try!” the girl whispered. “You can do it. I know you can.”

Again he poised the ball and threw. Then, holding his breath, he

watched it wing its curved path through the air—up, over, down; down,

fair, and true, into the mouth of the waiting wicker basket.

“Yea, bo!” shouted the enthusiastic Murphy. “He can thread the needle

all right.”

“Look here, my man!” Superintendent Creighton caught Vern’s coat lapel.

“If I give you a job in the stock room at ten a week, will you get out

and play on our basket-ball team this winter?”

“Will I?” asked Vern. “Try me and see.”

The girl from Landon’s extended her hand to him. “Here’s wishing you

good luck,” she said, “till——”

“Till when?”

“Till the Bloss five meets the Landon five—till your team plays ours.”

III.

The “big five” from the Bloss Company lined up for the last minute of

the final practice before the championship game of the season.

“Fast now!” jerked Captain “Red” Murphy as he tossed the ball to

“Curly” Clark, who shot it to Clif Sefton, who underhanded it to

Felber, who dribbled it a moment and then bounced it to Vernon Judd,

who completed the circuit and play by landing it neatly and accurately

in the basket.

“Attaboy!” Red growled. “Now the same thing on the other side,

fellows—and lots of pep!”

Three times in succession, from three different and difficult angles.

Vern had the pleasure of seeing his throws drop safely inside the

iron-rimmed net.

“Good enough!” admitted Red. “We’ll show those Landon counterfeits

how to play to-morrow night. Now just a minute.” He gathered the four

regulars and the two substitutes about him. “Boys, you all know we’ve

had the best season ever, and you all know this mix-up with Landon is

going to be our biggest and most important game—and our hardest. We

want to win a little worse than we want to go on living.” He turned

to Vernon Judd. “But maybe you don’t understand what I mean, Judd. Of

course, you’ve only been working here for five months and you——”

“Pretty nearly six,” corrected Vern. He had been marking them off on

the calendar in his room.

“Well, anyhow, unless you’ve been through a basket-ball season with the

sporting-goods teams, you can’t know how much it means to everybody in

this place to beat the Landon bunch. We’ve got to do it, understand?

Everybody that works here feels the same as college fellows feel about

their team. But that ain’t all. This game gets into every sporting

page of every big newspaper in the country. That means big advertising

for the winners. And advertising—sport-page stuff in news—means better

business, and better business means more money to all of us—oh, not a

lot, maybe, but every little bit helps. Get me?”

“I think I understand, Murph.”

“Don’t do no harm to tell you, anyhow. The people we work for want

us to win; the people we work with want us to win; we want to win

ourselves, the same as all real players do. And, Vern”—he put his hand

affectionately upon the young fellow’s jersey—“if you shoot baskets

Saturday night the way you did just now, we will win—sure!”

As Vernon Judd left the factory’s model gymnasium, where the team had

been holding its final practice, his body tingled from the rough-towel

rub that followed the shower; but he also tingled internally from sheer

pleasure and the joy of living. He had made good. Coming into the Bloss

works practically a nobody, by merit alone he had won friendship and

respect, as well as a place on a cracking good basket-ball five. Best

of all, for the first time in his life, he was really interested in the

business of earning a living.

Life as a whole had changed for him. Hard work in his department had

brought him a boost in the pay envelope, and his spare moments were

busied with a correspondence course in advertising. He wished his

father could see him jump out of bed before the winter sun rose, to

hurry to a job that had become a pleasure.

He was so busy patting himself on the back that only chance prevented

his colliding with a footfarer bound the other way.

“Hazel Wayne!” he blurted, as his surprised glance showed him the girl

from Landon’s whose acquaintance he had made through the rescue of the

lace handkerchief.

Her face was pale and troubled. His quick eye noted that she was

holding her library book almost ostentatiously.

“Practicing hard, Vern?” she queried, with a nervous little laugh, “Do

you really think you’re going to beat us Saturday?”

“Sure of it, Hazel. You’d better order your mourning suit right now.”

As he turned to walk with her toward the corner where the Weldon Park

cars passed, it became growingly evident that she was ill at ease.

“What’s the matter, Hazel?” he asked finally. “If you don’t like

something I’ve said or done, tell me what it was and I’ll apologize.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said, in a low voice, “no, there—there’s

nothing like that.”

“But something’s wrong. What is it? We’ve been pretty good friends for

over five months now. Surely you can tell me.”

Still she was silent.

“Is it Creighton?” he asked lightly. “Haven’t you changed your mind

about him yet? Do you still think he’s a ‘low-down——’”

“Ss-s-sh!” She put her hand over his mouth. “Don’t—don’t ever repeat

what I said about him—not to anybody.”

The Weldon Park car was bowling nearer.

“What’s wrong, Hazel?” he asked, leaning closer. “Tell me.”

It was plain she was struggling with herself. Twice she opened her

mouth as though to speak. “No,” she said firmly, in the end. “I—I

haven’t anything to say—nothing at all—except to wish you luck

to-morrow night. That’s all.”

Thirty seconds later, as Vern watched the car whirl around the corner

into Moneta Avenue, his face bore a puzzled twist that was still

in evidence after a brisk walk had brought him back to the factory

entrance.

“Hello, Billy!” he greeted the night watchman. “I left some

correspondence-school stuff in my locker. I see there’s a light in the

supe’s office, so it will be O. K. to pass me in.”

With a grunt of assent, old Billy led the way to the coat room and

watched Vern take the leaflets from the locker shelf. Partly deaf, the

watchman did not heed the fragment of conversation that floated down

the corridor from Creighton’s open door.

“It’s all right,” the superintendent was saying. “Monday night ends

it. I tell you, I’ve worked three months getting things fixed so I can

tangle the factory into a dozen knots just before I——”

The voice trailed away into a confidential whispering that Vern could

not catch.

Vaguely the words disquieted him. Was it possible that Creighton was

all Hazel Wayne had said? How could she know? Hazel had never worked

in the Bloss factory. Her job was in the Landon cashier’s office, and

her father and brother were employed in the Landon leather-working

department. Probably her distrust of Creighton was a woman’s whim,

sprung of the natural bitterness resulting from his successful

management of the rival factory. But the boy’s suspicions were not

allayed at the sight of the superintendent’s startled face when he met

Vern at the outer door.

“What the devil are you doing here?” demanded Creighton, with a worried

glance at his late visitor, now turning to trudge up the street.

Vern’s answer seemed to reassure him a little.

“Come back,” he said abruptly. “Come into my office. I meant to have a

little talk with you to-morrow, but we might as well thresh it out now.”

They sat down, facing each other.

“Judd,” said the superintendent, “you like your job, don’t you?”

Vern responded with all the enthusiasm he could muster. Creighton

cocked his cigar in the corner of his mouth.

“You’ve done well here. You’re getting fifteen a week now, and you are

in line to get more”—he paused—“if you can keep your mouth shut and

obey orders.”

The tone of the talk was objectionable, but Vernon Judd’s six months

were too nearly at an end for him to object. “Yes, sir,” he said

quietly, “I want to advance, of course.”

Creighton leaned forward. “Judd,” he confided, “there’s one way for you

to hang on to your job—and only one way.” The change in his voice was

startling.

“What do you mean?”

The superintendent’s heavy eyebrows contracted in a sinister line.

“The Bloss basket-ball team must lose to-morrow night. You’ve got to

let Landon win. Understand? You—not the team, but _you_—must see that

the game goes to them.”

Vern could hardly believe he had heard correctly. “Let Landon win! You

mean I—I must throw the game?”

“Exactly! I’m glad you understand. You know how to do it, of course,

and you can do it alone, because you make more baskets than all the

rest of them put together. Get hurt; pretend you’ve injured your arm. I

don’t care how you do it. But throw the game. Remember, I am your boss;

I am the boss of the Bloss basket-ball team. If you expect to hold your

job here, throw—that—game!”

Vern tried to think quickly. “But—don’t you want——”

“No, I don’t!” Creighton stood up, glaring fiercely. “No! No! I want

the Blosses to lose that game. Never mind why! That’s none of your

business. You want to hold your job. All right. Throw that game. If you

don’t, the first thing I’ll do the following Monday morning will be to

fire you.”

“But I haven’t done anything to warrant——”

“Bah! What are you doing here this time of night? Do you think the

police will lake your word before they take mine? You’ve got folks

somewhere. How will they like it when they hear you’ve been hauled into

a police station for being a petty thief? I can do it all right, and I

will—if you don’t throw that game. Think it over. Don’t try to double

cross me, because it can’t be done. That’s all.”

Uneasy and troubled, Vernon Judd spent his trip to the boarding house

trying to figure out a solution for the mystery. What was the tangled

undercurrent? Was Creighton doing all this simply to win a few dollars

by betting? The notion was ridiculous. Then what was the answer?

On the table in the front hall of the boarding house lay a note from

his father that thickened his difficulties. It had come by the late

mail. It ran:

DEAR VERN: Glad to learn from your letter that

you’ve been doing so well. As long as you have held out

over five months already, I am going to make this the

test. Win or lose this Bloss job—that is the deciding

factor in our wager as to the stuff of which you are

made. There is no reason why you should be fired from

Bloss & Company, and you must not let yourself be

fired. Stay with them till the six months are up—or

don’t come back.

FREEMAN JUDD.

Vern crumpled the letter in his hand. A pretty mess he had gotten into!

All his notions of honesty and sportsmanship recoiled at the thought of

throwing the game. Yet if he did not——

“_Br-r-r-r!_” It was the boarding-house telephone that roused him from

his reverie.

“Hello! Excuse me for disturbing you, but I must speak to Mr. Judd....

Oh, is this you, Vern? This is Hazel Wayne speaking. I must see you

now. I did have something to tell you before, but I couldn’t make

myself say it. I’ve come all the way back to tell it to you now. I am

at Baker’s Drug Store, just a block from your house. You’ll come right

over, Vern, won’t you?”

He buttoned his overcoat and plunged out into the snowy night air.

Hazel was waiting for him just outside the store, and as he appeared

she hurried toward him.

“Vern, I had to see you to-night. I hadn’t been to the library when I

met you before. I’d been waiting to talk to you after you finished your

basket-ball practice. But I was—afraid.”

“What is it?” he asked gently. “You needn’t be afraid to tell anything

to me, Hazel.”

She winked back one tear, but another rolled down her cheek. “Vern, you

mustn’t think the—the wrong way about me, but that basket-ball game

to-morrow night is a matter of life and death—almost. And your team

mustn’t win. You must let the Landon five beat you, because——Oh, I

can’t tell you why, but you must do it—you must. For my sake, Vern!”

She put both hands in his; then, before he could stop her, she was

plunging blindly toward the car. He watched her as she stood a moment

on the platform, shoulders shaking and a handkerchief to her eyes.

Boss, father, and girl all urging him to betray his trust! If he

tried—if his team won—he would lose his job, his chance to make

something of himself in the bigger business world, and the friendship

of Hazel Wayne.

For the first time since he had known her, he realized that she was

necessary to his future happiness.

IV.

As the referee’s whistle sent the Bloss and Landon basket-ball teams

scurrying to their positions the following evening, Hazel Wayne leaned

forward, with a quick intake of breath. The game was about to begin.

Whatever the outcome might mean to the workers and friends of the two

factories, it meant infinitely more to her. She told herself that the

Landon five would win, that it must win; but she could not stifle the

fear in her heart.

“We’ll beat them,” said the girl at her right, a fellow worker in the

Landon executive offices; “yes, we’ll beat them if——”

“——if Vern Judd doesn’t score too many baskets against us,” finished

another Landon worker. “They say he’s a wonder.”

They both nodded sagely. The fear in Hazel Wayne’s heart became a

hysterical laugh. Of course! And Vern wouldn’t try too hard, after what

she had told him; surely he wouldn’t!

“Ready, Landon?” asked the referee. “Ready, Bloss?” He shot the ball

high into the air, piped a shrill blast on his whistle as it began to

descend, and the great game was on.

The two opposing centers leaped for the yellow ball. But Vernon Judd

was the quicker and the surer. His right hand slapped it, shooting it

unerringly to Captain Murphy. The thud hurt Hazel Wayne like a blow.

Dully, despairingly, she watched Murphy catch the ball and pass it to

Clark, who shot it clear across the court to Felber. By this time Judd

was racing up the middle, practically unguarded. As the ball came to

him in a long, driving throw, he dropped it to the floor, tapped it

closer to the basket, and then, with a pretty toss, looped it upward

and forward, scoring the goal. At the end of the first minute, the

score stood: Bloss, 2; Landon, 0.

Huddled forward in her balcony seat at the other end of the gymnasium,

Hazel Wayne allowed her breath to escape with a gasp. He was trying,

then; he was playing his best. Perhaps, though, this was only a flash,

to allay suspicions. She would wait a little while before she condemned

him.

Again the opposing centers leaped for the ball; again Vern shot it

to a member of his team. This time, however, a lanky Landon youth

intercepted the throw from Murphy to Clark, and the ball bounced out of

bounds.

It was Bloss’ throw-in, and Felber, left guard, picked it up. Captain

Murphy called a quick signal, dodged under the arm of the player who

was covering him, and took the throw in the extreme left-hand corner of

the court, in Landon territory. The other three players shifted to the

boundary lines. Vernon Judd, dodging free, sped down the middle of the

unprotected court.

Hazel Wayne watched him with fascinated eyes. She knew the play; it

was the old crisscross forward pass. Why didn’t the Landon boys cover

Vern? Must he assume the entire responsibility for the failure at the

end? For she told herself positively that he would fail, that he had

done all they might reasonably expect of him.

Murphy threw, gauging ball and player to a nicety. Ten feet beyond the

center Vern caught it while running at full speed. Then, with a single

bewildering movement, he lifted it high above his head and shot another

basket with clean precision.

The score was now: Bloss, 4; Landon, 0. The Bloss adherents raised the

rafters with their mad cheering. In the little balcony at the other

end, Hazel Wayne leaned back with clenched hands.

“He doesn’t care enough for me to do what I asked,” she told herself

bitterly; and she forced herself to smile and nod when the girl at

her right expressed the hope that something would happen to Vern Judd

before the game was done. She wished something would—almost! Not a

serious hurt, of course, but——

By the time the ball was in play again, the Landon team seemed to have

found itself. It reasoned rightly that if the other four Bloss players

were to act as “feeders” to Judd, counting on him to shoot the baskets,

the thing to do was to corner and pocket and guard him so closely that

he would have no opportunity for unhampered throwing. So effectively

did they carry out this campaign that for ten minutes or more he was

hopelessly entangled in the mesh of opposing players.

They went farther. The Bloss star now began to bear the brunt of every

attack. His arm was hacked on throws. He was tripped and fouled in all

the artistic ways that could escape the eyes of the official. Twice he

went to the floor with a crash, and once he was tumbled headfirst out

of bounds.

But Hazel Wayne, watching the game with the eye of an expert, dared

hope there was another reason for Vernon Judd’s sudden eclipse. And

when the Bloss rooters began to move uneasily as he failed to score

goals, and shrunk back when he should have charged, and submitted

tamely to an opponent’s making a pass when he should have scrimmaged

for a toss-up, she grew more and more convinced that he was no longer

doing his best.

A little later, the referee caught a Landon player fouling him, and

Vern took the ball for a free throw. Poising it carefully, he shot it

high in the air, a good five feet to one side of the basket. The Bloss

sympathizers, mouths open to cheer the scoring point, allowed them to

close with dumb amazement. It wasn’t even a good try.

“Now watch us!” bragged the girl by Hazel’s side. “I heard this

afternoon that Vern Judd had sold out, and I guess he has.”

Hazel looked at her with troubled eyes. All at once she felt cold and

sick, as if something terrible had happened.

“It looks that way,” agreed the girl on her left. “Well, every man

has his price. Sometimes it’s money, sometimes business politics, and

sometimes a woman. I wonder——” And she glanced at Hazel out of the tail

of her eye.

“He—he wouldn’t sell out,” Hazel told the girl weakly. “He isn’t that

kind.”

The other laughed meaningly. “Isn’t he? Oh, I don’t——Look! Look! What

do you think now?”

Vern had been clear for once. The ball came to him waist-high—and he

dropped it! Like a flash, the captain of the Landon five caught it up

and shot it half the length of the court to another player near the

boundary line. He passed it to a third, who scored a neat goal on a

side diagonal pass that gave him the ball directly in front of the

basket.

The score was now: Bloss, 4; Landon, 2.

“A goal at last,” said one of the girls, sighing, “thanks to Mr. Judd.”

“It was an accident,” defended Hazel, angry without reason. “Anybody is

apt to drop the ball now and then.”

Both teams scored again from the field before the end of the first

half, and, during the last minute, Landon crept closer on a palpable

body-check and free throw. When the whistle blew, the score was: Bloss,

6; Landon, 5.

The teams changed goals. The Bloss basket was now at the balcony end,

where Hazel Wayne could lean forward and look straight down into it.

On the toss-up that began the second half, Vern’s attempt to whack the

ball was so weak that it brought a hiss or two from the spectators.

Worse still, it made them watch him suspiciously after that. When he

failed twice on free throws, and Murphy took his place after the next

foul, the crowd began to mutter.

“What do you think now about the little angel named Vern Judd?”

triumphantly demanded the girl on Hazel’s right.

“I—I don’t want to talk, please!” said Hazel. She couldn’t think; she

couldn’t understand her own emotions or the wonderful metamorphosis

of her desires. Something had changed her whole point of view. The

integrity of Vernon Judd meant more to her, all at once, than anything

else in the world. Indignant at first that he should play so well when

she had asked him not to, she was now praying that he would yet do his

best, that he would strive to win like a clean sportsman, that he would

forget everything save his own honesty and good name. If he wasn’t that

kind——She dared not complete the thought.

The game wore on, with varying fortunes. Players from first one team

and then the other rushed the ball up and down the court in zigzagging

passes, tapping, tossing, dribbling, shooting it from man to man,

looping it for the basket, scrambling for it when it missed, and

trotting back to their positions when a goal was scored.

Eventually the Landon five began to assume the upper hand. There was

no denying that its center outclassed Vern—or, at least, the Vern who

was playing to-night. He could throw better, he could block better with

his arm, he could bat the ball better on the toss-up. Because of these

advantages, Landon finally assumed the lead by the slender margin of a

single point in the 9-8 score.

“If I could only talk to him for a minute!” Hazel whispered to herself,

watching the player fail in encounter after encounter. “If I could tell

him to forget me, and play—play! I must have been mad to ask him to

sacrifice himself for me!”

She watched, with staring eyes, as he whacked clumsily at the ball.

“Vern!” she called appealingly. “Vern!”

But he couldn’t hear her, of course. The whole gymnasium was a Babel of

confused shouts. She could only lean forward, with her hands clutching

the balcony rail, and follow him with her eyes; gloating when he broke

free or handled the ball, wincing when opponents crashed into him, and

telling herself always that if the opportunity offered he would prove

his true character yet.

Some official at the side of the court made an announcement. Hazel

could not hear what he said, and she turned to a man behind her for the

information.

“It’s the usual warning that there are only three minutes more to

play,” he explained.

Three minutes! Why, it couldn’t be possible. There must be some

hideous mistake! Only three minutes before the game ended—and Landon

one point ahead! That meant, unless some miracle took place, Bloss was

beaten—beaten because a girl had asked a man to forget honor for her

sake.

She had no watch. Yet she must time the game to its bitter end. The

torture of waiting constantly for the final whistle, without knowing

what moment it might come, was too great a strain to bear. Already her

heart was pounding——

With a sudden inspiration, she dropped the finger tips of her right

hand upon the pulse of the other wrist. The normal heartbeat was a

little over seventy, wasn’t it? That meant practically a surge of the

artery for every second.

She began to count—one, two, three, four, five, and so on up to the end

of the first minute. Out on the floor, the ten players were scurrying

here and there like frightened ants, apparently without aim or purpose,

but in reality dodging and running with preconceived plans. But neither

team scored again. Nor did Vern stand out conspicuously in the playing.

The second minute measured itself by her pulse beats. Now and then,

during some tense moment, her fingers pressed so hard that she lost the

steady throb-throb of the wrist. But she knew within a second or two

when the final minute of play began.

The antlike players shifted toward the Bloss goal. They were almost

constantly within throwing distance now, and one accurate toss would

win. A dozen times the chance seemed to have come, but always there was

some blocking Landon opponent.

“Fifty-two, fifty-three, fifty-four,” Hazel went on mechanically. Then,

with a convulsive start, she realized what the figures meant. They were

the final grains of sand in the hourglass. Her finger tips shook free

of the wrist, and it was three seconds before they pressed the pulse

again.

“Fifty-eight, fifty-nine, sixty,” she resumed her counting, and lost

the next beat as her heart stopped with the shock of apprehensive fear.

Then she laughed with nervous relief. Sixty pulse beats weren’t quite a

minute; there were from ten to fifteen still to record before the final

whistle.