ho had, as usual, gathered to see the train come in.

"Yes, sir, I split that beast right up first time," he said. "I'm a
chopper. You'd have seen the pieces fly if I'd sailed into that hotel
bar a little while ago."

Weston fancied that this was probable, for the man was dexterous, and
there was applause when he set the bright blade whirling, and passed
the haft from hand to hand. Most of the loungers could do a good deal
with the ax themselves, and the lean, muscular demonstrator made
rather a striking figure as he stood poised in statuesque symmetry
under the lamplight with the bright steel flashing about him.

In the meantime, Weston leaned on the pile of cases and packages
somewhat moodily. After paying for his ticket and Grenfell's to the
station nearest the copper-mine he had about four dollars in his
pocket, and he did not know what he should do if no employment were
offered him when he got there. He had no doubt that he could provide
for himself somehow, but Grenfell was becoming a responsibility. He
felt that he could not cast the man adrift, and it seemed scarcely
likely that anybody would be anxious to hire him. Still, Grenfell was
his comrade, and they had borne a good deal together during their
journey in the wilderness. That counted for something. There was also
another matter that somewhat troubled Weston. He was not unduly
careful about his personal appearance, but he had once been accustomed
to the smoother side of life in England, and his clothing was now
almost dropping off him. The storekeeper, whom he had interviewed that
morning, had resolutely declined to part with a single garment except
for money down; and, after an attempt to make at least part of the
damage good with needle and thread, Weston found the effort useless
and abandoned it.

Then two great locomotives came snorting out of the shadows that
wrapped the climbing track, and he grasped the shoulder of his
comrade, who did not appear disposed to get up. There was a little
pointed badinage between those who were starting for the mine and the
loungers, and in the midst of it the big cars rolled into the station.
Weston started, and his face grew darkly flushed, for two white-clad
figures leaned out over the guard-rail of one of the platforms, and
for a moment he looked into Ida Stirling's eyes. There was no doubt
that she had recognized him, and he remembered the state of his
attire, and became uneasily conscious that Grenfell, who clu