He stared his incredulity, then replied with ungracious irony:

"You've concealed it well."

"Flattery is bad for growing boys," she smiled mischievously.

"I'm sure you've never spoiled any one by it. You've treated me like a
hound, mostly."

Her eyes sparkled as she answered:

"I like hounds, if they have mettle."

"Even when they run themselves down following a cold trail?" he asked in
self-derision.

Her reply was interrupted by voices raised in altercation in the
vicinity of the supply-wagon. A clump of bushes concealed the
disputants, but they easily recognized the rasping nasal tones of Mr.
Stott and the menacing bellow peculiar to the cook in moments of
excitement.

The wrangle ended abruptly, and while Helene and Wallie stood wondering
as to what the silence meant, Pinkey with a wry smile upon his face came
toward them.

"Well, I guess we're out of the dude business," he said, laconically.

"What's the matter now?" Wallie demanded so savagely that the two burst
out laughing.

"Nothin' much, except that Hicks is runnin' Stott with the butcher-knife
and aims to kill him. I don't know as I blame him. He said his grub was
full of ants and looked like scraps for Fido."

Wallie was alarmed, but Pinkey reassured him.

"Don't worry! He won't catch him, unless he's got wings, the gait Stott
was travellin'. He'll be at the hotel in about twenty minutes--it's only
five miles. What do you make of this, pardner?" Pinkey handed him a worn
and grimy envelope as he added in explanation:

"I found it stuck in the cupboard of the wagon."

Wallie took the envelope, wondering grimly as he turned it over if there
was anything left that could surprise him. There was. On the back was
written:

Ellery Hicks INSULTED August 3rd, this year of our Lord, 1920.

Below, in pencil, was a list of the party with every name crossed out
save Mr. Stott's, and at the bottom, ornamented with many curlicues and
beautifully shaded, was the significant sentence, with the date as yet
blank:

Ellery Hicks AVENGED, August ---- this year of our Lord, 1920.

CHAPTER XXV

"AND JUST THEN----"

Mr. Cone stood at his desk, looking all of ten years younger for his
rest at the Sanatorium. Indeed, it was difficult to reconcile this
smiling, affable host of the Magnolia House with the glaring maniac of
homicidal tendencies who had hung over the counter of The Colonial
Hotel, fingering the potato pen-wiper and hurling