g
into any schemes you've got in your head. But there's things in my
life I've got to work out in my own way. Things I can't and don't want
to talk about. Maybe I'll often be doing things that seem queer to
you. But I want to do 'em, and intend to do 'em. Drink is not one
of 'em. You'll find I'm a night bird, too. But, again, my night
wanderings are my own. You'll hear folks say all sorts of things about
me. You'll see Fyles very busy. Well, it's up to you to listen or not.
All I say is don't fight my battles. I can fight them in my own way.
Two of us are liable to mess them all up. Get me? I live my life, and
you can share as much in it as you like, except in that--well, that
part of it I need to keep to myself. There's just one thing I promise
you, Fyles'll never get me inside any penitentiary. I promise you
that, sure, because I know from your manner that's the trouble in the
back of your silly old head. Good night."

He passed out of the room without giving the astonished Bill any
opportunity to do more than respond to his "good night." Anyway, the
latter had nothing else to say. He was too taken aback, too painfully
startled at the tacit admission to all the charges he had been warned
the people and police of Leaping Creek were making against his
brother. What could he say? What could he do? Nothing--simply nothing.

He remained where he was against the table. He had forgotten his wet
clothes. He had forgotten everything in the overwhelming nature of
his painful feelings. His own beliefs, Kate's loyally expressed
convictions, had been utterly negatived. It was all true. All
painfully, dreadfully true. Charlie was not only a drunkard still, but
the "crook" he was supposed to be. He was a whisky-runner. He was
against the law. His ultimate goal was the penitentiary. Good God, the
thought was appalling! This was where drink had led him. This was the
end of his spoiled and wayward brother's career. What a cruel waste of
a promising life. His good-natured, gentle-hearted brother. The boy he
had always admired and loved in those early days. It was cruel,
terrible. By his own admission he was against the law, a "crook,"
and--the penitentiary was looming.

CHAPTER XVIII

THE ARM OUTREACHING

The morning was gloriously fine. It was aglow with the fulness of
summer. Far as the eye could see the valley was bathed in a golden
light which the myriad shades of green made intoxicating to senses
drinking in this glo