hough he pondered some great and
weighty matter--probably his sins, the correspondent mused nervously,
rolling himself a cigarette. When the yellow cube had dissipated
itself in curling fragrance, and he was deliberating about rolling a
second, Borg suddenly spoke.

"Fifteen years," he said, and returned to his tremendous cogitation.

Thereat, and for half an hour thereafter, St. Vincent, fascinated,
studied his inscrutable countenance. To begin with, it was a massive
head, abnormal and top-heavy, and its only excuse for being was the
huge bull-throat which supported it. It had been cast in a mould of
elemental generousness, and everything about it partook of the
asymmetrical crudeness of the elemental. The hair, rank of growth,
thick and unkempt, matted itself here and there into curious splotches
of gray; and again, grinning at age, twisted itself into curling locks
of lustreless black--locks of unusual thickness, like crooked fingers,
heavy and solid. The shaggy whiskers, almost bare in places, and in
others massing into bunchgrass-like clumps, were plentifully splashed
with gray. They rioted monstrously over his face and fell raggedly to
his chest, but failed to hide the great hollowed cheeks or the twisted
mouth. The latter was thin-lipped and cruel, but cruel only in a
passionless sort of way. But the forehead was the anomaly,--the
anomaly required to complete the irregularity of the face. For it was
a perfect forehead, full and broad, and rising superbly strong to its
high dome. It was as the seat and bulwark of some vast intelligence;
omniscience might have brooded there.

Bella, washing the dishes and placing them away on the shelf behind
Borg's back, dropped a heavy tin cup. The cabin was very still, and
the sharp rattle came without warning. On the instant, with a brute
roar, the chair was overturned and Borg was on his feet, eyes blazing
and face convulsed. Bella gave an inarticulate, animal-like cry of
fear and cowered at his feet. St. Vincent felt his hair bristling, and
an uncanny chill, like a jet of cold air, played up and down his spine.
Then Borg righted the chair and sank back into his old position, chin
on hands and brooding ponderously. Not a word was spoken, and Bella
went on unconcernedly with the dishes, while St. Vincent rolled, a
shaky cigarette and wondered if it had been a dream.

Jacob Welse laughed when the correspondent told him. "Just his way,"
he said; "for his ways