s. His father had
managed to pay his debts, then very selfishly died, and there was nobody
to support the son and heir, just emerging from a drunken junior year.

Creditors made a clean sweep in Albany; the rough shooting-lodge in the
Fox Hills was left. Young McCloud took it.

The pine timber he sold as it stood; this kept him in drink and a little
food. Then, when starvation looked in at his dirty window, he took his
rifle and shot partridges.

Now, for years he had been known as a dealer in game out of season; the
great hotels at Saratoga paid him well for his dirty work; the
game-wardens watched to catch him. But his ice-house was a cave
somewhere out in the woods, and as yet no warden had been quick enough
to snare McCloud red-handed.

Musing over these things, the young fellow leaned on the rotting fence,
staring vacantly at the collie dog, who, in turn stared gravely at him.

The path-master, running her tanned fingers through her curls, laid one
hand on her dog's silky head and looked up at him.

"I do wish you would work out your tax," she said.

Before McCloud could find voice to answer, the alder thicket across the
road parted and an old man shambled forth on a pair of unsteady bowed
legs.

"The kid's right," he said, with a hoarse laugh; "git yewr pick an' hoe,
young man, an' save them two dollars tew pay yewr pa's bad debts!"

It was old Tansey, McCloud's nearest neighbor, loaded down with a bundle
of alder staves, wood-axe in one hand, rope in the other, supporting the
heavy weight of wood on his bent back.

"Get out of that alder-patch!" said McCloud, sharply.

"Ain't I a-gittin'?" replied Tansey, winking at the little path-master.

"And keep out after this," added McCloud. "Those alders belong to me!"

"To yew and the _blue_-jays," assented Tansey, stopping to wipe the
sweat from his heavy face.

"He's only cutting alders for bean-poles," observed the path-master,
resting her slender fingers on her hips.

"Well, he can cut his bean-poles on his own land hereafter," said
McCloud.

"Gosh!" observed Tansey, in pretended admiration. "Ain't he neighborly?
Cut 'em on my own land, hey? Don't git passionate," he added, moving off
through the dust; "passionate folks is liable to pyralyze their in'ards,
young man!"

"Don't answer!" said the path-master, watching the sullen rage in
McCloud's eyes.

"Pay yewr debts!" called out Tansey at the turn of the road. "Pay yewr
debts, an' the Lord will