ssion--to breakfast and to a meeting of the lodge. Others straggled
after, but a few waited for the appearance of the doctor. When the sun
came up and Rockwell, pale and downcast, issued forth, they gathered
round him, and walked with him through the town, questioning, listening
and threatening.

A few still remained behind at Ingolby's house. They were of the devoted
slaves of Ingolby who would follow him to the gates of Hades and back
again, or not back if need be.

The nigger barber, Berry, was one; another was the Jack-of-all-trades,
Osterhaut, a kind of municipal odd-man, with the well-known red hair,
the face that constantly needed shaving, the blue serge shirt with a
scarf for a collar, the suit of canvas in the summer and of Irish frieze
in the winter; the pair of hands which were always in his own pocket,
never in any one else's; the grey eye, doglike in its mildness, and the
long nose which gave him the name of Snorty. Of the same devoted class
also was Jowett who, on a higher plane, was as wise and discerning a
scout as any leader ever had.

While old Berry and Osterhaut and all the others were waiting at
Ingolby's house, Jowett was scouting among the Manitou roughs for the
Chief Constable of Lebanon, to find out what was forward. What he had
found was not reassuring, because Manitou, conscious of being in the
wrong, realized that Lebanon would try to make her understand her
wrong-doing; and that was intolerable. It was clear to Jowett that, in
spite of all, there would be trouble at the Orange funeral, and that
the threatened strike would take place at the same time in spite of
Ingolby's catastrophe. Already in the early morning revengeful spirits
from Lebanon had invaded the outer portions of Manitou and had taken
satisfaction out of an equal number of "Dogans," as they called the
Roman Catholic labourers, one of whom was carried to the hospital with
an elbow out of joint and a badly injured back.

With as much information as he needed, Jowett made his way back to
Lebanon, when, at the approach to the bridge, he met Fleda hurrying with
bent head and pale, distressed face in his own direction. Of all Western
men none had a better appreciation of the sex that takes its toll of
every traveller after his kind than Aaron Jowett. He had been a real
buck in his day among those of his own class, and though the storm of
his romances had become but a faint stirring of leaves which had tinges
of days that are sear