"Yes, shadow dearie!" said the big fellow whimsically, "what is't?"

"Aren't you going to cut this stuff out, Jim?"

"What? Man alive, do ye want to make a mock o' me? Me!--cut it out and this just the first week. You managed that once, Phil, to my eternal disgrace. Don't ye know that when I start, it means a month on the calendar--and has always meant that and always will mean----"

"No, it won't," put in Phil. "Not if I know it!"

"But, Phil, the folks expect it. Ye could never disappoint the people."

"Disappoint be-d.a.m.ned! Are you going to quit this right now, or not?"

"Man, ye shouldna put it like that to me," expostulated Jim, swaying slightly as he threw his arm round by way of emphasis.

Phil held out his hand to him.

"All right, Jim! I'm sorry. Good-bye! Good-bye for good!"

Almost a haunted look came into the bloodshot eyes of the big fellow.

"Phil,--Phil,--ye don't mean that? Ye wouldna throw me doon?"

"But I do mean it. I thought you and I were going to make a good partnership some day."

"And aren't we?"

"Not this way! Good heavens, Jim!--what's the matter with you, anyway?

Haven't you got the courage to stand a little disappointment now and again without flying to this? You can't go on being a fool all your life.

"I tell you, I came here to make good. I am making good and I'm going to make better. So can you, if you get down to it. We can turn this town round our thumbs, if we go to it together. If you haven't the grit to quit this d.a.m.nable foolishness--then I'm through with you for keeps and I'm going to find somebody with sense to go at it with me.

If I can't, then I'm going to go at it alone."

With bent head, Jim stood in silence under the tirade.

"Where did you get this rig?" asked Phil, referring to the team and wagon.

Jim shook his head.

"What did you do with the horses you took from Mrs. Clunie's barn?"

Jim shook his head again.

"They were your own horses;--where did you get them?"

Jim's shock of auburn hair waggled a negative.

"And that's what the booze is doing for you, old man. You won't know your own name pretty soon."

Suddenly Phil's voice changed and he slipped his arm across his friend's shoulder.

"Jim,--Jim,--we've been good pals. Won't you quit this crazy behaviour, and we'll stay good pals right to the finish?"

"When do you want me to start?" asked Jim quietly.

Phil's face lit up.

"Right now!"

"Give me to-night;--two or three hours more, and don't interfere with me between this and then,--and I'll take you on."

"It's a go!" exclaimed Phil, holding out his hand.

Jim gripped it, and Phil knew that Jim would keep his word, for he was the kind of man whose word, drunk or sober, was as good as the deed accomplished.

"Mind you, Phil,--I don't say I'll never drink again."

"I'm not asking you to promise that," answered Phil.

"Right! At nine o'clock to-night I'm through with the long-term Highland Fling for keeps."

Phil a.s.sented to the proposal and left Jim to complete his potato distribution.

But Jim could not have remained very long with the job, for, by the time Phil had taken a leisurely stroll round to the forge to have a few words with Sol Hanson, and had partaken of a bit of supper with Betty and the big, genial Swede, Jim had succeeded in putting up his delivery-outfit, had dressed himself out in his cowboy trappings; chaps, Stetson, khaki shirt, red tie, belts, spurs and all complete, and was creating a furore among the law-abiding citizens down town.

Phil came upon the scene--or rather, the scene came upon Phil--like a flash of lightning out of the heavens.

He was making down town, intent on spending half an hour with his pipe and the evening paper in a secluded corner of the Kenora Hotel, when he heard a shout and witnessed a scurrying of people into the middle of the road. Phil himself had hardly time to get out of the way of a mad horseman who was urging his horse and yelling like an Indian on the war-path; tearing along the sidewalk in a headlong gallop, striking at every overhanging signboard with the handle of his quirt and sending these swinging and creaking precariously--oblivious of everybody and everything but the crazy intent in speed and noise that seemed to possess him so fully.

"How long has he been at this?" Phil asked of an old, toothless bystander.

"Oh,--'bout half an hour, maybe more, maybe not quite so much," came the reply.

"n.o.body been hurt?" he inquired further.

"Guess nit! That Langford faller's all right. On the loose again, and just a-lettin' off steam. A good holler and a good tear on a cayuse ain't goin' to hurt n.o.body nohow, 'cept them what ain't got no call to go and be interferin'."

With difficulty Phil extricated himself from the man's superfluity of negatives and continued on his way.

He pa.s.sed through the saloon of the Kenora, which was already overflowing with the usual mob such places attract in any Western country town; ranchers, cowpunchers, real-estate touts, railway construction men, horse dealers, teamsters and several of Vernock's sporty storekeepers and clerks.

He seated himself in a lounge chair in one of the side rooms, lit his pipe and pulled out the previous day's Coast newspaper. He was tired from his all day's running around after Jim. It was a raw evening out-of-doors, but it was cosy in there. The popping of corks, the clinking of gla.s.ses, the hum of voices and the occasional burst of ribald laughter, even the quarrelsome argument; all had more or less a soothing effect, which began to make Phil feel at harmony with the world at large. He looked at his watch. It was eight o'clock. He stretched his legs, unfolded the large sheet and settled down comfortably.

He did not get very far. He had only scanned the headlines and had read the chief editorial, when the sound of an old, familiar voice in the saloon attracted his attention. He looked up.

It was DeRue Hannington, immaculate as usual, but terribly excited and mentally worked-up.

This same Percival DeRue Hannington had now become an established fact in Vernock. While he was looked upon as more or less of a fool in regard to money matters--with more money than brains--he had that trait about him which many well-bred Englishmen possess; he always commanded a certain amount of respect, and he declined to tolerate anything verging on loose familiarity.

"Say!" he was drawling, as he strode the saw-dusted floor, whacking his leggings with his riding crop, "what would you Johnnies do with a rotter that grossly maltreated your horse?"