of
forgiveness, we all went to the Ranters."

"I've often wondered where you got your power from, Ford," remarked
Connie. "I see now."

"Yes, that great wall made me hate the great wall that bars the people
from all beautiful things; that fat hypocrite made me hate all frauds. I
can never forget the way we all swallowed those things as sacred. When I
get going with a pencil I feel towards whatever it is just as I felt to
the parson, and I try to make everybody feel the same. Yet would you
believe it, I don't care much for cartooning. I want to paint."

"Why don't you?" asked Nellie.

"Well, there's money you know. Then it was sheer luck that made me a
cartoonist and I can't expect the same run of luck always."

"Don't believe him, Nellie," said Connie. "He feels that he has a chance
now to give all frauds such a hammering that he hesitates to give it up.
You've paid the parson, Ford, full measure, pressed down and running
over!"

"Not enough!" answered Ford. "Not enough! Not till the wall is down flat
all the world over! Do you think Egypt would have lasted 20,000 years if
her priests had been like my parson, and her slaves like my people?"

"I'd forgotten all about Egypt," said Nellie. "But I suppose her rulers
had sense enough to give men enough to eat and enough to drink, high
wages and constant employment, as M'Ilwraith used to say. Yes; it was
wiser than the rulers of to-day are. You can rob for a long while if you
only rob moderately. But the end comes some time to all wrong. It's
coming faster with us, but it came in Egypt, too."

"Here is Arty, finished!" interrupted Connie, who every little while had
looked through the door at the young man. She jumped up. "Come along in
and see what it is this time."

They all went in, jostling and joking one another. Arty was standing up
in the middle of the room looking at some much blotted slips of paper. He
appeared to be very well satisfied, and broke into a broad smile as he
looked up at them all. Geisner and Ned found themselves side by side near
the piano, over the keys of which Geisner softly ran his fingers with
loving touch. "You are in luck to-night," he remarked to Ned. "You know
Arty's signature, of course. He writes as----," mentioning a well-known
name.

"Of course I know. Is that him?" answered Ned, astonished. "Verses which
bore that signature were as familiar to thousands of western bushmen as
their own names. Who is Ford?" he added.

"Ford! O