his own jumping
gear he'll leap ahead and make good. For instance, son, here's an
example. Joe invented an anti-stagger shoe--a star-shaped shoe--to
be let out at saloons and city clubs like they lend umbrellas for a
fee--and then the reformers went and passed that prohibition law. Always
a little behind with a grand notion--that's the trouble with Joe!"

"Amos, you're making up that yarn about a shoe!" declared Xoa.

"Well, if it wasn't an anti-stagger shoe, it was--oh--something,"
insisted the Squire. "At any rate, Joe was in my office to-day. He's
home again. He's all cheered up. He is taking town gossip for face
value." The notary looked away from Vaniman and gave his wife an
ingenuous glance. "Of course, I don't need to remind you, Xoa, speaking
of gossip, that the folks will have it that Tasp Britt has put on that
war paint so as to go on the trail of a Number Two. And Joe says that,
in picking Vona, Britt has picked right. Joe's a genius in inventing.
I'm expecting that he'll now invent a lie about himself or Britt or
somebody else to make that girl either sorry enough or mad enough to
carry out what gossip is predicting."

Xoa had seated herself at the small table and was vigorously rattling
the dice in one of the boxes by way of a hint to the laggard menfolks.
"Women have a soft side, and men come up on that side and take
advantage--and Joe Harnden's mealy mouth has always served him well
with his womenfolks--but I do hope Vona Harnden has got done being
fool enough to galley-slave and sacrifice for the rest of her life,"
sputtered the dame. "Britt for her? Fs-s-sh!" Her hiss of disgust was
prolonged. Then she rattled the dice more vigorously.

"It's a mighty good imitation of a--diamond-backed rattler, mother! But
come on over to the table, son! She isn't as dangerous as she sounds!"
The Squire dragged along his chair.

Vaniman leaped from his seat with a suddenness that was startling in
that interior where peace prevailed and composure marked all acts. For
the first time in his stay in the Hexter home his mood fought with the
serenity of the place. The prospect of that bland contest with disks
and dice was hateful, all of a sudden. His rioting feelings needed
room--air--somehow there seemed to be something outside that he ought to
attend to.

"Dear folks, let me off for to-night," he pleaded. "It's been a hard day
for me--in the bank--I'm nervous--I think a walk will do me good."

He rushed into the h