breath began to give
out, but try as he would, Langford could not shake his follower.

There was no sign of any recognition; no word passed between them.

Three or four times they circled Chinatown in this way. Langford
next dropped into a long, swinging stride and started up toward the
railway tracks and out on to the high road of Coldcreek. Doggedly,
limpet-like, Phil kept closely to him.

On, on he walked, mile after mile, untiring, apparently unheeding,
looking neither to right nor left. And on, on, after him, almost at
his side, went his determined friend.

In an hour, Jim cut down a side road and commenced to circle back by
the low road, past the lake and once again toward the fairy, twinkling
lights of Vernock.

The Post Office clock chimed the first hour of a new day, when they
got back.

Jim stopped up in front of a stable, pushed his way inside--for the
door was ajar--tumbled down in a corner among some hay and,
apparently, was soon fast asleep.

Phil dropped down beside him, but did not close his eyes.

And glad he was of it, for, about an hour later, very stealthily Jim
rose on his elbow, looked into Phil's face, and, evidently satisfied
that he was unconscious, rose and made softly for the door.

But when he turned to close it behind him, Phil was right by his
side.

Without a word, Jim changed his mind and went straight back to his hay
bed on the stable floor; and this time he tumbled into a deep sleep.

Phil must have dozed off too, for when he awoke the light of an Autumn
sun was streaming through a dirty window on to his face.

He started up in consternation, but his fears were soon allayed for
Jim Langford was still sleeping peacefully, dead to the world, with an
upturned face tranquil and unlined, and innocent-looking as a baby
boy's.

The work horses in their stalls were becoming restless. Phil examined
his watch. It was six o'clock.

He knew that the teamster would soon be on his job getting his beasts
ready for their day's work, so he roused Langford, who sat up in a
semi-stupor, licking his lips with a dry, rough tongue.

He gazed at Phil for a while. Phil smiled in good humour.

"Man, but I'm a rotter!" said Jim.

"Of course you are!" agreed Phil. "We're both more or less rotters."

"But that son of a lobster McGregor knocked you cold," he pursued,
starting in where he had left off several days before.

"He did, Jim, and threw me through the window to wind up with."

"A