enty of rain, and in the drizzle
that held over until Friday noon Bud went out to an old calf shed
which he had discovered in the edge of the pasture, and gathered his
neckerchief full of mushrooms. Bud hated mushrooms, but he carried them
to the machine shed and waited until he was sure that Honey was in the
sitting room playing the piano--and hitting what Bud called a blue note
now and then--and that Lew was in the bunk-house with the other men, and
Dave and old Pop were in Pop's shack. Then, and then only, Bud took long
steps to the kitchen door, carrying his mushrooms as tenderly as though
they were eggs for hatching.

Marian was up to her dimpled elbows in bread dough when he went in.
Honey was still groping her way lumpily through the Blue Danube Waltz,
and Bud stood so that he could look out through the white-curtained
window over the kitchen table and make sure that no one approached the
house unseen.

"Here are some mushrooms," he said guardedly, lest his voice should
carry to Honey. "They're just an excuse. Far as I'm concerned you can
feed them to the hogs. I like things clean and natural and wholesome,
myself. I came to find out what's the matter, Mrs. Morris. Is there
anything I can do? I took the hint you gave me in the note, Sunday, and
I discovered right away you knew what you were talking about. That was a
holdup down in the Sinks. It couldn't have been anything else. But
they wouldn't have got anything. I didn't have more than a dollar in my
pocket."

Marian turned her head, and listened to the piano, and glanced up at
him.

"I also like things clean and natural and wholesome," she said quietly.
"That's why I tried to put you on your guard. You don't seem to fit in,
somehow, with--the surroundings. I happen to know that the races held
here every Sunday are just thinly veiled attempts to cheat the unwary
out of every cent they have. I should advise you, Mr. Birnie, to be very
careful how you bet on any horses."

"I shall," Bud smiled. "Pop gave me some good advice, too, about running
horses. He says, 'It's every fellow for himself, and mercy toward none.'
I'm playing by their rule, and Pop expects to make a few dollars, too.
He said he'd stand by me."

"Oh! He did?" Marian's voice puzzled Bud. She kneaded the bread
vigorously for a minute. "Don't depend too much on Pop. He's--variable.
And don't go around with a dollar in your pocket--unless you don't mind
losing that dollar. There are men in th