himself for not being
here to 'shoot up' the camp for you in person. He is away, you know;
gone to Carbonate for the day."

"Ought we to go, Cousin Billy?" she asked, shifting, not the decision,
but the responsibility for it, to broader shoulders.

"Why not, if you care to?" said the athlete, to whom right-of-way
fights were mere matters of business in no wise conflicting with the
social ameliorations.

Virginia hesitated. There was a thing to be said to Mr. Adams, and
that without delay; but how could she say it with her cousin standing
by to make an impossible trio out of any attempted duet confidential?
A willingness to see that Winton had fair play need not carry with it
an open desertion to the enemy. She must not forget to be loyal to her
salt; and, besides, Mr. Somerville Darrah's righteous indignation was
a possibility not lightly to be ignored.

But, the upshot of the hesitant pause was a decision to brave the
consequences--all of them; so she took Calvert's arm for the slippery
crossing of the ice-bridge.

Once on his own domain, Adams did the honors of the camp as thoroughly
and conscientiously as if the hour held no care heavier than the
entertainment of Miss Virginia Carteret. He explained the system under
which the material was kept moving forward to the ever-advancing
front; let her watch the rhythmic swing and slide of the rails from
the car to the benches; took her up into the cab of the big "octopod"
locomotive; gave her a chance to peep into the camp kitchen car; and
concluded by handing her up the steps of the "dinkey."

"Oh, how comfortable!" she exclaimed, when he had shown her all the
space-saving contrivances of the field office. "And this is where you
and Mr. Winton work?"

"It is where we eat and sleep," corrected Adams. "And speaking of
eating: it is hopelessly the wrong end of the day,--or it would be in
Boston,--but our Chinaman won't know the difference. Let me have him
make you a dish of tea,"--and the order was given before she could
protest.

"While we are waiting for Ah Foo I'll show you some of Jack's
sketches," he went on, finding a portfolio and opening it upon the
drawing-board.

"Are you quite sure Mr. Winton won't mind?" she asked.

"Mind? He'd give a month's pay to be here to show them himself. He is
peacock vain of his one small accomplishment, Winton is--bores me to
death with it sometimes."

"Really?" was the mocking rejoinder, and they began to look at the
ske