huge solitary hawk slowly circled with wide-spread, motionless wings,
uttering intermittently its querulous, eerie whistle.

Awhile the two exhausted men lay gasping for breath--absolutely and
utterly spent. Suddenly Yorke shivered violently and sighed. Redmond
raised himself off the prostrate form of his late opponent and,
staggering over to the pile of their discarded habiliments, slowly and
painfully he donned his fur coat and cap; then, picking up Yorke's, he
stumbled over to the latter. The senior constable was now sitting up,
with arms drooping loosely over his knees. George wrapped the coat
around the bowed shoulders and put on the cap.

"You're cold, old man!" he said simply. "We'd best get our things on
now, and beat it."

Wearily Yorke raised his head, and, at something he beheld in that
disfigured, but unalterably-handsome face, Redmond's heart smote him.

Often in the past he had fondly imagined himself nursing implacable,
absolutely undying hatreds; brooding darkly over injuries received in
fancy or reality, planning dire and utterly ruthless revenge, etc. But,
deep, deep down in his boyish soul he knew it to be only a dismal
failure--that he could not keep it up. His was an impulsive, generous
young heart--equally quick to forgive an injury as to resent one. Now in
his pity and misery he could have cried--to see his erstwhile enemy so
hopelessly broken in body and spirit.

Therefore it did not occur to him that it was sheer sentimental absurdity
on his part now to drop on one knee and put his arms around that
shivering, pride-broken form.

"Yorkey!" he mumbled huskily, "old man! . . . Yor--"

He choked a bit, and was silent.

Waveringly, a skinned-knuckled, but sinewy, shapely hand crept out and
gently ruffled Redmond's curly auburn hair. Vaguely he heard a voice
speaking to him. Could that tired, kind, whimsical voice belong to
Yorke? It said: "Reddy, my old son! . . . we're still in the ring,
anyway. . . . Seems--do what we would or could--we couldn't poke each
other out. . . ."

Came a long silence; then: "If ever a man was sorry for the rotten way
he's acted, it's surely me right now. . . . Got d----d good cause to be
p'raps. . . . I handed it to you about the sponge . . . egad! I
well-nigh came chucking it up myself--later. My colonial oath! but
you're the cleverest, gamest, hardest-hitting young proposition I've ever
ruffled it out with! . . . Where'd you pick it up? Who