heir ranks the sledge where their master was couched. Voices were
hushed and eyes were wide.

"I've been hit a wallop, boys," quavered the old man. "Overnight it has
hit me. Shock. It ain't surprising at my age. Mother had the same."

For that moment Flagg had put aside the shell of his nature; he found
instant sympathy in the gaze which rough men of the forest bestowed on a
stricken one of their ilk. He was responding to that sympathy. There
were tears in his eyes.

"Men, I'm hurrying Mr. Flagg home where he can be looked after by the
doctors. I'm sure he'll soon be all right again," Latisan assured them,
lying for the good of the cause. "In the meantime I'm saying to him for
myself that I'm standing by for every ounce that's in me. What do you
say to him?"

"The same!" they yelled, in a ragged chorus.

"Fact is," went on Ward, as spokesman for all, "to make up for your not
being with us, Mr. Flagg, we've got to put in twice as many licks
because you're not on the job, and you can depend on us. What, boys?"

They bellowed promises and shrieked a pledge.

"Get along to headwaters and start to rolling the jackstraws onto the
ice," shouted Latisan. "Have the dynamite warmed when I get back there.
If we have to do it, well beat the April rains to the job."

They went on their way, cheering.

"You've heard us. It ought to help some," stated Ward, urging his team
along toward Adonia.

"The songs of the angels never will sound any better, and the angels
will never look any better than those men did just now," declared the
old man, still in his softened mood.

Latisan turned about and grinned at the master.

"I know what you mean," averred Flagg. "Of course I know. I was after
pirates and I've got the toughest gang in the north country. Feed 'em
raw meat, Latisan!"

Over the snow, which was slushy under the April sun of midday, and
finally into Adonia over the rutted grit that the evening chill had
frozen, the baron of the Noda was driven to the door of his mansion on
the ledges.

Latisan had picked up men at the tavern as helpers.

A hail brought out a little old man whose white, close beard and fluffy
hair gave his face the appearance of a likeness set into a frame of
cotton batting. It was Rickety Dick; Brophy had told Latisan about him.
He flung his hands above his head; it was his involuntary action when
deep emotion stirred him; and his customary ejaculation was, "Praise the
Lord!" It was possible that