of various high tides were plainly visible on his
wrists and well up his arms. He arose with a wistful look at the platter
of ham which had started on its first and perhaps only lap around the
table.

Uncle Bill glanced up and commented affably:

"You got ran out, I see. I thought _she'd_ flag them hands when I saw
you goin' in with 'em."

Lannigan grunted as he splashed at the wash basin in the corner.

"I notice by the Try-bune," went on Uncle Bill with a chuckle, "that one
of them English suffragettes throwed flour on the Primeer and--" His
mouth opened as a fresh headline caught his eye, and when he had
finished perusing it his jaw had lengthened until it was resting well
down the bosom of his flannel shirt . . . The headline read:

BRAVE TENDERFOOT SAVES HIS GUIDE
FROM DEATH IN BLIZZARD
T. VICTOR SPRUDELL CARRIES EXHAUSTED OLD MAN
THROUGH DEEP DRIFTS TO SAFETY
A MODEST HERO

Uncle Bill removed his spectacles and polished them deliberately. Then
he readjusted them and read the last paragraph again:

"The rough old mountain man, Bill Griswold, grasped my hand at parting,
and tears of gratitude rolled down his withered cheeks as he said
good-bye. But, tut! tut!" declared Mr. Sprudell modestly: "I had done
nothing."

Uncle Bill made a sound that was somewhere between his favorite
ejaculation and a gurgle, while his face wore an expression which was a
droll mixture of amazement and wrath.

"Oh, Lannigan!" he called, then changed his mind and, instead, laid the
paper on his knee and carefully cut out the story, which had been copied
from an Eastern exchange, and placed it in his worn leather wallet.

IX

THE YELLOW-LEG

While seated in the office of the Hinds House, with his eyes rolled to
the ceiling, listening in well-feigned rapture to "Rippling Waves" on
the cabinet organ, and other numbers rendered singly and ensemble by the
Musical Snows, Mr. Dill in reality was wondering by what miracle he was
going to carry out Sprudell's specific instructions to keep his errand a
secret.

"The great, white light which plays upon a throne" is not more searching
than that which follows the movements of a possible Live One in a
moribund mining camp, and, in spite of his puttees, Ore City hoped
against hope that some benefit might be derived from the stranger's
presence.

Dill's orders were to get