ested to Sheila McCrae that
she was imprudent in visiting a bachelor's ranch unchaperoned, she
would have been both amazed and indignant. And it would have been
unsafe to hint at such a thing to Casey Dunne. Indeed, the desirability
of a chaperon never occurred to either of them; which was, after all,
the best guarantee of the superfluity of that mark of an advanced
civilization.

But in a moment Sheila was on her feet, arranging, straightening.
"You're awfully untidy, Casey!" she said.

Indeed her comment was justified. The long table in the centre of the
room was a litter of newspapers, magazines, old letters, pipes, and
tobacco. Odd tools--a hammer, a file, a wrench, and a brad awl--mingled
with them. On top of the medley lay a heavy revolver, with the cylinder
swung out and empty, a box of cartridges, a dirty rag, and an oil can.
In one corner stood half a dozen rifles and shotguns. From a set of
antlers on the wall depended a case of binoculars, a lariat, and a pair
of muddy boots. The last roused Sheila's indignation.

"Whatever do you hang up boots in your sitting room for?" she demanded.

"Why, you see," he explained, "they were wet, and I hung 'em up to dry.
I guess I forgot 'em. It's not the right place, that's a fact." He
rose, took down the offending footgear, and tossed them through the
open door into the next room. They thumped on the floor, and Sheila was
not placated.

"That's just as bad. Why, they were covered with dried mud, and now
it's all over the floor. You're shockingly careless. Don't you know
that that makes work?"

"For Feng, you mean. That's what I pay him for--only he doesn't do it."

But she shook her head, brushing the excuse aside as trifling,
unsatisfactory. "It's a bad habit. I pity your wife, Casey."

"Poor thing!"

"When you get one, I mean."

"Time enough to sympathize then. Now, Sheila, if it's all the same to
you, don't muss that table up. I know where to find everything the way
it is."

"Muss it up! I like that!" she responded. "Why, of all the old _junk_!
Haven't you got a tool house? And it's an inch deep in dust." She
extended her fingers in proof. "That dirty rag! And a gun and
cartridges there for any one to pick up! You ought to be ashamed of
yourself. Don't you know better than that? Don't you know you shouldn't
leave firearms and ammunition together? It's as bad as leaving them
loaded, almost."

"That's Tom's gun. Sail into him."

"You shouldn't allow it.