t
a time upon the grass beside the fire. The milk was in a clean little
graniteware pail, the eggs had been placed in a paper bag, while the
other articles were wrapped in pieces of newspaper.

As the opening of each revealed its contents, fresh, clean, and
inviting, Bridge closed one eye and cocked the other up at Billy.

"Did he die hard?" he inquired.

"Did who die hard?" demanded the other.

"Why the dog, of course."

"He ain't dead as I know of," replied Billy.

"You don't mean to say, my friend, that they let you get away with all
this without sicing the dog on you," said Bridge.

Billy laughed and explained, and the other was relieved--the red mark
around Billy's wrist persisted in remaining uppermost in Bridge's mind.

When they had eaten they lay back upon the grass and smoked some more of
Bridge's tobacco.

"Well," inquired Bridge, "what's doing now?"

"Let's be hikin'," said Billy.

Bridge rose and stretched. "'My feet are tired and need a change. Come
on! It's up to you!'" he quoted.

Billy gathered together the food they had not yet eaten, and made two
equal-sized packages of it. He handed one to Bridge.

"We'll divide the pack," he explained, "and here, drink the rest o' this
milk, I want the pail."

"What are you going to do with the pail?" asked Bridge.

"Return it," said Billy. "'Maw' just loaned it to me."

Bridge elevated his eyebrows a trifle. He had been mistaken, after all.
At the farmhouse the farmer's wife greeted them kindly, thanked Billy
for returning her pail--which, if the truth were known, she had not
expected to see again--and gave them each a handful of thick, light,
golden-brown cookies, the tops of which were encrusted with sugar.

As they walked away Bridge sighed. "Nothing on earth like a good woman,"
he said.

"'Maw,' or 'Penelope'?" asked Billy.

"Either, or both," replied Bridge. "I have no Penelope, but I did have a
mighty fine 'maw'."

Billy made no reply. He was thinking of the slovenly, blear-eyed woman
who had brought him into the world. The memory was far from pleasant. He
tried to shake it off.

"'Bridge,'" he said, quite suddenly, and apropos of nothing, in an
effort to change the subject. "That's an odd name. I've heard of Bridges
and Bridger; but I never heard Bridge before."

"Just a name a fellow gave me once up on the Yukon," explained Bridge.
"I used to use a few words he'd never heard before, so he called me 'The
Unabridged,' which was to