the classic regularity of those features and
the strange manner of the schoolteacher. She lived in a country where
masculine men were a drug on the market. John Gaspar was the pleasant
exception.

"You see," explained Gaspar, "I had to cheer Sally by saying something
like that. Women like to have such things said. She'll be absolutely
confident now, because she thinks I'm not disturbed. Very odd, but very
true."

"And it seems to me," said Sinclair, frowning, "that you're not much
disturbed, Gaspar. How does that come?"

"What can I do?"

"Maybe you'd be man enough to try to break away."

"From you? Tush! I know it is impossible. I'd as soon try to hide
myself in an open field from that hawk. No, no! I'll give you my
parole, my word of honor that I'll make no escape."

But Sinclair struck in with: "I don't want your parole. Hang it, man,
just do your best, and I'll do mine. You try to give me the slip, and
I'll try to keep you from it. That's square all around."

Gaspar observed him with what seemed to be a characteristic air of
judicious reserve, very much as if he suspected a trap. A great many
words came up into the throat of Riley Sinclair, but he refrained from
speech.

In a way he was beginning to detest John Gaspar as he had never
detested any human being before or since. To him no sin was so great as
the sin of weakness in a man, and certainly Gaspar was superlatively
weak. He had something in place of courage, but just what that thing
was, Sinclair could not tell.

Curiosity drew him toward the fellow; and these weaknesses repulsed
him. No wonder that he stared at him now in a quandary. One certainty
was growing upon him. He wished Gaspar to escape. It would bring him
shame in Sour Creek, but for the opinion of these men he had not the
slightest respect. Let them think as they pleased.

It came home to Riley that this was a man whose like he had never known
before, and whom he must not, therefore, judge as if he knew him. He
softened his voice. "Gaspar," he said, "keep your head up. Make up
your mind that you'll fight to the last gasp. Why, it makes me plumb
sick to see a grown man give up like you do!"

His scorn rang in his voice, and Gaspar looked at him in wonder.

"You'd ought to be packing yourself full of courage," went on Sinclair.
"Here's your pal, Jerry Bent, coming back. Two agin' one, you'll be.
Ain't that a chance, I ask you?"

But Gaspar shook his head. He seemed even a little amu