lame from the
morning's tramp, and calling to Billy to follow him, went out into the
cool air.

The banker made his way carefully through the tangle until he reached
the edge of the ledge overhanging the boiling torrent below, white as
milk in the moonlight. He selected a dry log and for some minutes sat
smoking and gazing in silence at the torrent, whose hoarse roar was
the only sound coming up from the sleeping forest. So absorbed was
he with his own thoughts that he seemed unconscious that Holcomb was
beside him. His gaze wandered from the brook to the forest of hemlocks
bristling from the opposite bank, their shaggy tops touched with
silver. Beyond lay the wilderness--a rolling sea of soft hazy timber
hemmed in by the big mountains, flanked by wet granite slides that
shone like quicksilver.

"Billy," he began at length.

Holcomb started; it was the first time the banker had called him
"Billy."

Suddenly Thayor looked up, and Holcomb saw that the gray eyes were dim
with tears.

"You're not sick, are you, Mr. Thayor?" asked Holcomb, starting toward
him.

"No, my boy," replied Thayor huskily; "I've been happy for a whole
day, that is all. Happy for a whole day. Think of it!"

"I'm glad--and you haven't found it too rough; and the things were
comfortable, too?" ventured Holcomb.

"Too rough! Why, man, this is Paradise! Think of it, Billy--your
friends have been actually interested in _me_--in _my_ comfort--_me_,
remember!"

"Why, of course," returned Holcomb. "They think a heap of your being
here--besides, there are not two better-hearted men in these whole
woods than Freme and the old man."

Again the gray eyes gazed down into the torrent.

"What I want to say to you is this: I want you to let me know what you
think would be right at the end of our stay, and I'll see that they
get it."

Holcomb straightened and looked up with surprise.

"But they're not here, Mr. Thayor, for money; neither of them would
accept a cent from you."

"What! Why, that isn't right, Billy. You mean to say that Holt and
Skinner have come up here and fixed up this shanty to hunt with us for
nothing!" stammered the financier. "I won't have it."

"Yes," answered Holcomb, his voice softening, "it's just as I'm
telling you. That's the kind of men the Clown and Hite are. You'd only
insult them if you tried to pay them. There are a lot of things the
old man has done in his life that he has never taken a cent for; and
as for the