ure in trigonometry and calculus, which I might have dodged
and didn't. I reveled in them. My mother was scandalized, and Gene
Wellington, an artist, who, by the way, has just given up his career for
a good bank clerkship in Philadelphia, a sort of cousin of mine, was
positively shocked. It seemed so unrefined and strong-minded. But my
father said I was just his own flesh and blood in that line. Yes, I'll
teach school. Mr. Ponk is going to offer me the position, and it's a
whole lot better than the poor-house, or madness, or the East, maybe,"
she added, softly, with a luminous glow in her beautiful eyes.

The old Sage Brush world seemed to slip out from under Joe Thomson's
feet just then.

"Is your friend related to John Wellington, who once lived in
Philadelphia?" he asked, after a pause, his mind far away from his
query.

"Why, he's John Wellington's son! John Wellington was a sort of partner
of my father's once," Jerry said. Even in the soft light Joe saw the
pink flush deepen on the girl's cheek. "Good night." She offered him her
hand. "I hope I may see you often. Oh, I hate that blowout, and you
ought to hate me on account of it."

"It is a brainless, hateful thing," Joe Thomson declared, as he took her
proffered hand. "All my streams seem to be Rubicons, even to the crooked
old Sage Brush. I can't be an inspiration to anybody. It is you who can
give me courage. If you can teach mathematics in New Eden, _I believe I
can kill that blowout_."

The strength of a new-born purpose was in the man's voice.

"Oh, no, you can't, for it's mostly on my land yet!" Jerry replied.

"Well, what of it? You say you won't play in that old sand-pile any
more. What do you care who else plays there? Good night."

"Good night, Mr. Thomson. Why, what is that?" Jerry's eyes were on a
short, squat figure standing in the middle of the gateway to the
Macpherson grounds.

"That's 'Fishing Teddy,' an old character who lives a hermit kind of
life down the Sage Brush. He comes to town about four times a year;
usually walks both ways; but I promised to take him out with me
to-night. He's harmless and gentle. Everybody likes him--I mean of our
sort. You wouldn't be interested in him. His real name is Hans Theodore,
but, of course, nobody calls him Mr. Theodore. Everybody calls him
'Fishing Teddy.' Good night, Miss Swaim."

Joe Thomson lifted his hat and walked away.

Jerry saw the old man shuffle out and join him, and the two went dow