hat tree that fell across the trail to
your cabin rather than stop and chop it out. You sleeps fourteen hours a
day and eats the rest. The hardest work you ever do is to draw your
money. Hell's catoots! It's a crime to keep a born Ranger like you off
the Department's pay-roll."

"You think I'm drunk now and I'll forgit. Well--I won't." The Judge
shook a tremulous but belligerent fist. "I'll remember what you said to
me the longest day I live, and you've turned an ol', ol' frien' into an
enemy. Whur's that waumbat coat what was hangin' here day 'fore
yistiday?"

In offended dignity the Judge took the waumbat coat and retreated to the
furthermost end of the office, where he covered himself and went to
sleep in the plush barber-chair.

In the silence which followed, Miss Vi doing belated chamberwork
upstairs sounded like six on an ore-wagon as she walked up and down the
uncarpeted hall.

"Wisht they'd sing somethin'," said Porcupine Jim wistfully.

As though his desire had been communicated by mental telepathy Ma Snow's
soprano came faintly from the kitchen--"We all like she-e-e--p-." Miss
Rosie's alto was heard above the clatter of the dishes she was placing
on the table in the dining-room--"We all like she-e-e--p-." Miss Vi's
throaty contralto was wafted down the stairs--"We all like she-e-e-p."
"Have gone" sang the tenor. "Have gone astray--astray"--Mr. Snow's
booming bass came through the stove-pipe hole. The baritone arrived from
the stable in time to lend his voice as they all chorded.

"The stage's comin'," the musical hostler announced when the strains
died away. The entranced audience dashed abruptly for the door.

A combination of arnica and vanilla seemed indeed to have sharpened the
Judge's hearing for the stage was fully an hour earlier than any one had
reason to expect.

"Don't see how he can make such good time over them roads loaded down
like he is with Mungummery-Ward Catalogues and nails comin' by passel
post." Yankee Sam turned up his coat collar and shivered.

"Them leaders is turrible good snow-horses; they sabe snow-shoes like a
man." Lannigan stretched his neck to catch a glimpse of them through the
pines before they made the turn into the Main street.

There was a slightly acid edge to Uncle Bill's tone as he observed:

"I ought to git my Try-bune to-night if the postmistress at Beaver Crick
is done with it."

"Git-ep! Eagle! Git-ep, Nig!" They could hear the stage driver urging
his h