of the fine-flaked tobacco so much used in the West. Thus encouraged,
Ware rolled himself a cigarette. Others followed suit. Still others
produced and filled black old pipes. A formidable haze eddied through
the apartment. Amy, still sewing, said, without looking up:

"One of you boys go rummage the store room for the corn popper. The
corn's in a corn-meal sack on the far shelf."

Just then Thorne came in, bringing a draft of cold air with him.

"Well," said he, "this is a pretty full house for this time of year."

He walked directly to the rough, board shelf and from it took down a
book.

"This man Kipling will do again for to-night," he remarked. "He knows
more about our kind of fellow than most. I've sent for one or two other
things you ought to know, but just now I want to read you a story that
may remind you of something you've run against yourself. We've a few
wild, red-headed Irishmen ourselves in these hills."

He walked briskly to the lamp, opened the volume, and at once began to
read. Every once in a while he looked up from the book to explain a
phrase in terms the men would understand, or to comment pithily on some
similarity in their own experience. When he had finished, he looked
about at them, challenging.

"There; what did I tell you? Isn't that just about the way they hand it
out to us here? And this story took place the other side of the world!
It's quite wonderful when you stop to think about it, isn't it? Listen
to this--"

He pounced on another story. This led him to a second incursion on the
meagre library. Bob did not recognize the practical, rather hard Thorne
of everyday official life. The man was carried away by his eagerness to
interpret the little East Indian to these comrade spirits of the West.
The rangers listened with complete sympathy, every once in a while
throwing in a comment or a criticism, never hesitating to interrupt when
interruption seemed pertinent.

Finally Amy, who had all this time been sewing away unmoved, a
half-tender, half-amused smile curving her lips, laid down her work with
an air of decision.

"I'll call your attention," said she, "to the fact that I'm hungry. Shut
up your book; I won't hear another word." She leaned across the table,
and, in spite of Thorne's half-earnest protests, took possession of the
volume.

"Besides," she remarked, "look at poor Jack Pollock; he's been popping
corn like a little machine, and he must be nearly roasted himself."

J