orses before they caught sight of the leader's ears turning the
corner.

Then Porcupine Jim, who had the physical endowment of being able to
elongate his neck like a turtle, cried excitedly before anyone else
could see the rear of the stage: "They's somebudy on!"

A passenger? They looked at each other inquiringly. Who could be coming
into Ore City at this time of year? But there he sat--a visible fact--in
the back seat--wearing a coon-skin cap and snuggled down into a
coon-skin overcoat looking the embodiment of ready money! A Live One--in
winter! They experienced something of the awe which the Children of
Israel must have felt when manna fell in the wilderness. Even Uncle Bill
tingled with curiosity.

When the steaming stage horses stopped before the snow tunnel, the
population of Ore City was waiting like a reception committee, their
attitudes of nonchalance belied by their gleaming, intent eyes.

The stranger was dark and hatchet-faced, with sharp, quick-moving eyes.
He nodded curtly in a general way and throwing aside the robes sprang
out nimbly.

A pang so sharp and violent that it was nearly audible passed through
the expectant group. Hope died a sudden death when they saw his legs. It
vanished like the effervescence from charged water, likewise their
smile. He wore puttees! He was the prospectors' ancient enemy. He was a
Yellow Leg! A mining expert--but who was he representing? Without
knowing, they suspected "the Guggenheimers"--when in doubt they always
suspected the Guggenheimers.

They stood aside to let him pass, their cold eyes following his legs
down the tunnel, waiting in the freezing atmosphere to avoid the
appearance of indecent haste, though they burned to make a bee-line for
the register.

"Wilbur Dill,--Spokane" was the name he inscribed upon the spotless page
with many curlicues, while Ma Snow waited with a graceful word of
greeting, bringing with her the fragrant odors of the kitchen.

"Welcome to our mountain home."

As Mr. Dill bowed gallantly over her extended hand he became aware that
there was to be fried ham for supper.

He was shown to his room but came down again with considerable celerity,
rubbing his knuckles, and breaking the highly charged silence of the
office with a caustic comment upon the inconvenience of sleeping in cold
storage.

There was a polite murmur of assent but nothing further, as his hearers
knew what he did not--that Pa Snow upstairs was listening. Yankee