ls.
Surmising that the half-breeds had "put one over on him" he started
down town, hot foot and hot of head. He took the back way through
Chinatown, as he knew Jim had a habit of frequenting the most unusual
places when on the rampage.

His journey, for a time, proved without adventure.

Had he taken the way of Main Street, or further over still, toward
the poorer class of shacks and dwellings, it might have been more
interesting for him, for Jim's insatiable love of a change was being
indulged to its full and he was busy making quite a good fellow of
himself with all the orphans and poverty-stricken widows he could
find.

It was he, and not the half-breeds, who had taken his horses from Mrs.
Clunie's barn. What he did with them after he took them was not clear
to himself then, for his memory merely served him in flashes. But all
of it returned to him later, in startling realism.

He found himself on top of a wagon-load of sacked potatoes, driving a
good team of heavy horses townward, with his own mare leisurely
ambling behind, unhitched--following him as a dog would.

He had no use for sacked potatoes at that particular moment, so he
bethought himself how best to get rid of them. As usual, he set about
to do a good turn where it was most needed.

From one end of the little country town to the other he went, stopping
at the door of every family he knew of where the produce would prove
of value, and off he unloaded one, or two, or three sacks, as he
thought they might be required; refusing to betray the source of
supply further than that they were a gift which the Lord was
providing.

It was thus that Phil finally found him, and quite unabashed was that
lanky, dust-browned individual.

"Can you no' let a man be?" he remonstrated. "When I'm playin' the
deevil, you admonish me, and when I'm tryin' to do a good turn, you're
beside me, silent and stern as a marble monument.

"Man, Phil, ye mak' me feel like the immortal Robert Louis Stevenson
must have felt when he wrote 'My Shadow.'"

"I never heard of it," said Phil.

"What? Never heard of it! May the Lord in his bounteous mercy forgive
ye for your astounding ignorance. No time like the present, Philly,
laddie;--no time like the present. Listen!--and never dare ye tell me
again that ye never heard it,--for it's your twin brother."

And there, in that back street, beside the potato wagon, he burst into
melody in as clear and rich a baritone voice as Phil had