ace,
eager to ask more questions, while she feared to say a word. It may
have been her conscience which made her uneasy. Of course she believed
that the precautions she had taken rendered it impossible for any one
to accuse her, or at any rate to prove anything. Still, a certain
anxiety remained, which she was unable to restrain. She would have
given a good deal to know what had taken place. Never had she doubted
that the scene would occur right there at the station in Carcajou.
That telegram had badly upset her plans, apparently. And then it was
queer that Hugo had not come down after receiving it, if only to try
to find out what it meant. Finally, one of the men, having none of her
reasons for keeping still, came forth with a direct question.

"I reckon you got out to Roarin' Falls all safe with that there pooty
gal, didn't ye?" he asked.

It was Joe Follansbee who had sought this information, being only too
eager to hint at something wrong on the part of a man he had long
deemed a rival. At his words, however, Sophy sniffed and turned up her
nose.

"I didn't see anything very pretty about her," she said.

"Well, I didn't see as how she was so real awful pretty," Joe hastened
to observe. "She ain't the style I admire, by no manner of means."

This strategic withdrawal was destined to meet with entire failure,
however. Sophy turned to the boxes of plug that were stored on the
shelves and pretended to busy herself with their order and symmetry.
But she was again listening, eagerly.

"What d'ye say, Stefan?" joined Pat Kilrea. "How'd she stand the trip?
Did ye see if her nose was still on her face when ye got there?"

"I tank so," opened Stefan, gravely, "but it wouldn't matter so much
vith de leddy. Maybe she ain't so much use for it like you haf for
yours, to stick into oder people's pusinesses."

Stefan continued to shave off curly bits from his plug, while the
laughter turned against the engineer. Carcajou, like a good many other
places, commonly favored the top-dog when it came to betting. The
answering grin in Pat's face was a rather sour one. If any other man
had spoken to him thus there might have been a lively fight, but no
one in Carcajou, and a good many miles around it, cared to engage in
fisticuffs with the Swede. A story was current of how he had once
manhandled four drunken lumberjacks, in spite of peavies and sticks of
cordwood.

"Well, you're getting to be a good deal of a lady's man, Stefan,"