hat
something of a painful nature was toward. He stopped short, puzzled,
and spoke:

"What's the matter with ye, anyhow?" he demanded fiercely. "Hain't ye
got any tongue?"

Then, at last, Zeke raised his eyes. They went first to the forward
door, to make sure that the girl had vanished. There were only two
mildly interested deck-hands in the cabin, beside the policeman,
though soon the place would be filled with newly arriving passengers.
He looked at the officer squarely, with despair in his expression:

"Hit ain't my tongue--hit's my pants!" he said huskily. "Hit's the
seat of my pants. Hit's--hit's thar!" He nodded toward the strip of
jeans left on the floor by the dog.

The policeman stared at the fragment of cloth, then his gaze returned
appreciatively to the victim's hands. He threw his head back and
bellowed with laughter, echoed raucously by the deck-hands. Zeke
waited grimly until the merriment lessened a little.

"I hain't a-stirrin' nary a step to no jail-house," was his morose
announcement, "unless somebody gits me some pants with a seat to
'em."

The policeman liked his ease too well to fight needlessly, and he had
an idea that the thews and sinews of the boomer might make a good
account of themselves. Moreover, he was by way of being a kindly soul,
and he apprehended in a measure the young man's misery.

"Can you dig up a pair of jumpers?" he asked the deck-hands. "You can
have 'em back by calling at the station to-morrow."

In this manner, the difficulty was bridged. Clad in the dingy and
dirty borrowed garment, the burning shame fell from Zeke, and he was
once again his own man. Nevertheless, he avoided looking toward the
piece of torn cloth lying on the floor, as he went out with the
policeman. He only wished that he might with equal ease leave behind
all memory of the lamentable episode.

Zeke's tractability increased the favorable impression already made on
the officer by the mountaineer's wholesome face and modest, manly
bearing. It was evident that this was no ordinary rake-helly boomer
come to town. There was, too, the black bag to witness that the
prisoner was an honest voyager. On the way to the station, the
constable listened with unusual patience to Zeke's curt account of the
misadventure, and the narrative was accepted as truth--the more
readily by reason of some slight prejudice against the dog, which had
failed as an exploiter of heroism. In consequence, the policeman grew
frien