hot August evening, his
attire stripped to the lowest terms compatible with possible unexpected
visitors, he laboured with all the enthusiasm characteristic of him at
tasks which to another mind would have been drudgery indeed.

To him, at about ten o'clock, came his neighbour and friend, Arthur
Chester. Standing with arms on the sill outside of the lighted window,
clad in summer vestments of white and looking as cool and fresh as the
man inside looked hot and dirty, Chester attempted to lure the worker
forth.

"Win's serving a lot of cold, wet stuff on our porch," he announced.
"Ellen's there, and the Macauleys, and Jord King has just driven up and
stopped for a minute. He's got Aleck with him and he's pleased as Punch
because he's rigged a contrivance so that Aleck can drive himself with
one hand. What do you think of that?"

"Good work," replied Burns absently after a minute, during which he
tested a steel edge with an experimental finger and shook his head at
it.

"Did you expect Jord to keep Aleck, when he's got to have another man
besides for the things Aleck can't do now?"

Burns nodded. "Expect anything--of him."

"Put down that murderous-looking thing and come along over. Ellen said
you were here, and Win sent word to you not to bother to change your
clothes."

"Thanks--I won't."

"Won't bother--or won't come?"

"Both."

Chester sighed. "Do you know what you remind me of when you get in this
hole of a workshop? A bull pup with his teeth in something, and only
growls issuing."

"Better keep away then."

"I suppose that's a hint--a bull-pup hint."

Silence from inside, while the worker stirred something boiling over a
flame, poured a dark fluid from one retort into another, dropped in a
drop or two of something from a small vial inflammatorily labelled, and
started an electric motor in a corner. Chester could see the shine of
perspiration on the smooth brow below the coppery hair, and drops
standing like dew on the broad white chest from which the open shirt was
turned widely back.

"It must be about a hundred and fifty Fahrenheit in there," he
commented. Burns grunted an assent. "It's only eighty-four on our porch,
and growing cooler every minute. The things we have to drink are just
above thirty-two, right off the ice." Chester's words were carefully
chosen.

"Dangerous extremes. But I wouldn't mind having a pint or two of
something cold. Go, bring it to me."

"Well, I like that."

"So