audience, two men balancing themselves upon the open floor joists of
the new church. "It's a real work of art. It's going to be swell, and
the folks should be just proud of it."

Billy Unguin smiled confidently.

"Oh, the folks'll be proud of it all right, all right," he said.
"They'll yap about this place, and how they built it, till you'll wish
it was swallowed up by that kingdom they guess they're going to get
boosted into by means of it. They'll have one hell of a burst at the
saloon when the work's done, and every feller'll be guessin' he could
have done the other feller's job better than he could have done it
himself, and the women folk'll just say what elegant critturs their
men are, till they get home sossled. Then they'll beat hell out of
'em. They'll sure be proud of it, but I don't guess the church'll be
proud of them. It'll have hard work helpin' most of 'em into the
kingdom. Ain't that so, Allan?"

Billy asked for confirmation of his opinions merely as a matter of
form. But Allan Dy displayed little interest in them. He had some of
his own.

"Guess so," he murmured indifferently.

"Course it's so," said Billy sharply.

"Dessay you're right," replied Dy, with still less interest. "But
I ain't got time thinking conundrums. I get too many, running the
mail. Still, I'd like to say right here this doggone church ain't
architecture. Maybe it's art, as Miss Kate says. But it ain't
architecture. That's what it ain't," he finished up, with decided
emphasis.

Kate smiled upon him. She was interested in what lay behind the
remark.

"How--how do you make that out, Allan?" she inquired.

The postmaster felt sorry for her and showed it.

"It's easy," he declared. Then he gathered his opinions in a bunch,
and metaphorically hurled them at her. "Where's the steel girders an'
stone masonry?" he demanded. "It's just wood--pine. Wher's the figures
an' measurements? Who knows the breakin' strain o' them green logs?
Maybe it's art, but it ain't architecture. I ain't so sure about the
art, neither. It's to be lined with red pine. Ther' ain't no art to
red pine. Now maple--bird's-eye maple, an' we got forests of it.
Ther's art in bird's-eye maple. It's mighty pleasing to the eye. It
'ud make the folks feel good. Red pine? Red?" He shook his head
ominously. "Not in this city. You see, red's a shoutin' color. Sets
folk gropin' fer trouble. But white's different. It--it sort o' sets
folks thinking o' them days when the