Horn Spoon, man!" cried Jim. "Alone! No chaperon! Good
Lord!"

"Yes," said Bennington, "I've always wanted to go West. I want to
write, and I'm sure, in that great, free country, I'll get a chance for
development. I had to work hard to induce father and mother to consent,
but it's done now, and I leave next week. Father procured me a position
out there in one of the camps. I'm to be local treasurer, or something
like that; I'm not quite sure, you see, for I haven't talked with
Bishop yet. I go to his office for directions to-morrow."

At the mention of Bishop the Leslies glanced at each other behind the
young man's back.

"Bishop?" repeated Jim. "Where's your job located?"

"In the Black Hills of South Dakota, somewhere near a little place
called Spanish Gulch."

This time the Leslies winked at each other.

"It's a nice country," commented Bert vaguely; "I've been there."

"Oh, have you?" cried the young man. "What's it like?"

"Hills, pines, log houses, good hunting--oh, it's Western enough."

A clock struck in a church tower outside. In spite of himself,
Bennington started.

"Better run along home," laughed Jim; "your mamma will be angry."

To prove that this consideration carried no weight, Bennington stayed
ten minutes longer. Then he descended the five flights of stairs
deliberately enough, but once out of earshot of his friends, he ran
several blocks. Before going into the house he took off his shoes. In
spite of the precaution, his mother called to him as he passed her
room. It was half past ten.

Beck and Hench kicked de Laney's chair aside, and drew up more
comfortably before the fire; but James would have none of it. He seemed
to be excited.

"No," he vetoed decidedly. "You fellows have got to get out! I've got
something to do, and I can't be bothered."

The visitors grumbled. "There's true hospitality for you," objected
they; "turn your best friends out into the cold world! I like that!"

"Sorry, boys," insisted James, unmoved. "Got an inspiration. Get out!
Vamoose!"

They went, grumbling loudly down the length of the stairs, to the
disgust of the Lady with the Piano on the floor below.

"What're you up to, anyway, Jimmie?" inquired the brother with some
curiosity.

James had swept a space clear on the table, and was arranging some
stationery.

"Don't you care," he replied; "you just sit down and read your little
Omar for a while."

He plunged into the labours of composition, and B