e
recovered, he would be at her mercy. Her task accomplished, on her
knees beside his prone figure, she thought to glance up at the window.

Wiley's ghost had disappeared.

Sheriff Crumpett and his party broke into the Lyons clearing within
an hour. They had arrived in answer to five successive shots given a
few moments apart, the signal agreed upon. The mystery to them,
however, was that those five shots had been fired by some one not of
their party.

The sheriff and his men found the McBride woman, her clothing half
torn from her body, her features powder-marked and blood-stained;
but she was game to the last, woman-fashion weeping only now that
all was over. They found, too, the man they had combed the country
to find--struggling fruitlessly in his bonds, her prisoner.

And they likewise found the miracle.

On the snow outside under the window they came upon a black
porcupine about the size of a man's head which, scenting food within
the cabin, had climbed to the sill, and after the habit of these
little animals whose number is legion all over the Green Mountains,
had required fifteen bullets pumped into its carcass before it would
release its hold.

Even in death its quills were raised in uncanny duplication of Mart
Wiley's pompadour.

A MATTER OF LOYALTY

BY LAWRENCE PERRY

From _The Red Book_

Standing in the bow of the launch, Dr. Nicholls, coach of the Baliol
crew, leaned upon his megaphone, his eyes fixed upon two eight-oared
crews resting upon their oars a hundred feet away. From his hand
dangled a stop-watch. The two crews had just completed a four-mile
race against the watch.

A grim light came into the deeply set gray eyes of Jim Deacon as the
coach put the watch into his pocket. Deacon was the stroke of the
second varsity, an outfit which in aquatics bears the same relation
to a university eight as the scrub team does to a varsity football
eleven. But in the race just completed the second varsity had been
much of a factor--surprisingly, dishearteningly so. Nip and tuck it
had been, the varsity straining to drop the rival boat astern, but
unable to do so. At the finish not a quarter of a length, not fifteen
feet, had separated the two prows; a poor showing for the varsity to
have made with the great rowing classic of the season coming on
apace--a poor showing, that is, assuming the time consumed in the
four-mile trip was not especially low.

Only the coach could really know whether