y-day came half of his gang were invariably
absent for several days, including even his trustworthy and
ever-to-be-relied-upon Freme Skinner, the Clown.

Holcomb had reasoned with Freme and had threatened him with discharge
a dozen times, his example being a bad one for the French Canadians
under his immediate care. As a last resort he had taken Belle Pollard,
Freme's sweetheart, a waitress at Morrison's, into his confidence. If
Belle could keep Freme sober over Sunday--it was impossible to keep
him away from her--Holcomb would speak a good word to Thayor for Freme
and Belle and then they could both get a place as caretakers of the
house during the coming winter, be married in the fall and so live
happy ever after.

The girl promised, and the next Saturday the test came.

"If Freme will let liquor alone," he had written to Thayor the day
these final arrangements were completed, "you couldn't have a
better man or a better girl, but I'm afraid we'll have to move Bill
Morrison's bar-room into Canada to accomplish it."

The result of this bargain Holcomb learned from the girl herself as
she sat in his cabin, the glow of a swinging lamp lighting up her
face.

On Saturday night, as usual, so Belle said, the Clown, his wages in
his pocket, had sat in one corner of Morrison's bar-room, the heels of
his red-socked feet clutched in the rung of his chair. A moment before
there had been a good-natured, rough-and-tumble wrestle as he and
another lumber jack grappled. The Clown had thrown his antagonist
fairly, the lumberjack's shoulders striking the rough floor with a
whack that made things jingle. The next moment the two had treated one
another at the bar, and with a mutual, though maudlin appreciation
of each other had gone back to their respective chairs among the line
tilted against the wall.

At that moment she had opened the bar-room door and announced supper.
Instantaneously the front legs of the line of tilted chairs came to
the floor with a bang. The Clown reached the girl and the half-open
door first.

"Blast you, Freme Skinner," she said, "be you a-goin' in or out?"

"Wall, I swow, Belle," remarked the Clown, steadying himself and
turning his bleary eyes on the closed door, "you be techier 'n a
sp'ilt colt, ain't ye?"

Soon the long table was filled by the hungry crowd. They sat heavily
in their chairs, their coats off, their hair slicked down for the
occasion. The Clown was seated at one end of the table, nea