hat bottle
under the shelf is the best." He bustled out. But Jeff caught Ballinger
by the sleeve.

"Will you hold my garments while I stone Stephen?" he hissed.

"I will," said Leo, meeting Jeff's eye. "Hit him once for me."

"Move the lever to the right, you old retrograde, and get Pappy to
gyratin' on his axis some fifteen or twenty minutes, you listenin'
reverently. Meanwhile, I'll make the necessary incantations. Git! Don't
look so blamed intelligent, or Pappy'll be suspicious."

Bransford hastened to the kitchen. "Ma Sanders, a bronc fell on me
yesterday and my poor body is one big stone bruise. Can I borrow some
boiling water to mix a small prescription, or maybe seven? One when you
first feel like it, and repeat at intervals, the doctor says."

"Don't you get full in _my_ house, Jeff Bransford, or I'll feed you to
the hawgs. You take three doses, and that'll be a-plenty for you."

Jeff put the steaming kettle on the rusty store stove, used as a
waste-paper basket through the long summer. Touching off the papers with
a match, he smashed an empty box and put it in. Then he went into the
post-office corner and laid impious hands on the United States Mail.

First he steamed open Lake's unregistered letter from the Land Office.
It was merely a few typewritten lines, having no reference to the
Butterbowl: "Enclosing the Plat of TP. 14 E. of First Guide Meridan
East Range S. of 3d Standard Parallel South, as per request."

He paused to consider. His roving eye lit on the wall, where the Annual
Report of the Governor of New Mexico hung from a nail. "The very thing,"
he said. Pasted in the report was a folded map of the Territory. This he
cut out, refolded it till it slipped in the violated envelope, dabbed
the flap neatly with Pappy's mucilage, and returned the letter to its
proper pigeonhole.

He replenished the fire with another box, subjected Lake's registered
letter to the steaming process and opened it with delicate caution. It
was the decision; it was in Lake's favor; and it went into the fire.
Substituting for it the Plat of TP. 14 and the accompanying letter he
resealed it with workmanlike neatness, and then restored it with a final
inspection. "The editor sits on the madhouse floor, and pla-ays with the
straws in his hair!" he murmured, beaming with complacent pride and
reaching for the bottle.

Pappy and Leo found him with his hands to the blaze, shivering. "I feel
like I was going to have a chill,"