fferent combinations of dots. Against
the thirty-two questions there were thirty-two combinations in which the
odd and even dots could be arranged, and Denver's series was the seventh
in order. The number of his question was nine. Where the seventh line
from the side met the ninth from the top there occurred the letter O.
Denver turned to the Oraculum and on the page marked O he found
thirty-two answers, each starred with a different combination of dots.
The seventh answer from the top was the one he sought--it said:

"Fear not, if thou are prudent."

"Good enough!" exclaimed Denver, shutting the book with a slap; but as
he went out into the night a sudden doubt assailed him--what did it mean
by: "If thou art prudent?"

"Fear not!" he understood, it was the first and only motto in the
bright, brief lexicon of his life; but what was the meaning of
"prudent?" Did it mean he was to refrain from opposing Old Bible-Back,
or merely that he should oppose him within reason? That was the trouble
with all these prophecies--you never could tell what they meant. Take
the silver and golden treasures--how would he know them when he saw
them? And he had to choose wisely between the two. And now, when he
referred the whole business to the Oraculum it said: "Fear not, if thou
art prudent."

He paced up and down on the smooth ledge of rock that made up the
entrance to his home and as he sunk his head in thought a voice came up
to him out of the blackness of the town below. It was the girl again,
singing, high and clear as a flute, as pure and ethereal as an angel,
and now she was singing a song. Denver roused up and listened, then
lowered his head and tramped back and forth on the ledge. The voice came
again in a song that he knew--it was one that he had on a record--and he
paused in his impatient striding. She could sing, this girl of Bunk's,
she knew something besides scales and running up and down. It was a song
that he knew well, only he never remembered the names on the records.
They were in German and French and strange, foreign languages, while all
that he cared for was the music. He listened again, for her singing was
different; and then, as she began another operatic selection he started
off down the trail. It was a rough one at best and he felt his way
carefully, avoiding the cactus and thorns; but as he crossed the creek
he suddenly took shame and stopped in the shadow of the sycamore.

What if the Professor, that old pro