down hay as a matter of course. Angus,
after a short greeting, maintained silence. Then picking up his lantern,
he left the stable. Garland thought his chance had come.

"They tell me you're going to school this winter," he observed.

"No," Angus replied.

"Mighty pretty teacher," Garland insinuated. "If I had the chance, I'd
sure go. I think I could learn a lot from her."

"There would be lots of room," Angus retorted.

"What!" Garland demanded, stopping short.

"Ay," Angus said grimly, setting his lantern on the ground and facing
him. "You might learn to mind your own business."

Garland peered at him in the moonlight.

"I'm not used to talk like that, young fellow."

"You need not take it unless you like," Angus said.

Garland laughed contemptuously. "Sore, are you? This is the funniest
thing I ever came across. I'm on to you, kid. It's too good to keep.
I'll have to tell her."

Angus scowled at him in silence for a moment. Then, deliberately,
bitterly, he gave him what is usually regarded as a perfectly good
_casus belli_.

Garland began to realize that he had made a mistake. He had anticipated
fun, but found this serious. If he thrashed Angus he could not very well
continue to call at the ranch. Also, looking at the tall, raw-boned
youth confronting him, he had an uneasy feeling that he might have his
hands full if he tried. He had not realized till then how much the boy
had grown. At bottom Garland was slightly deficient in sand. And so he
tried to avert the break he had brought about.

"That's no way to talk," he said. "You'll have to learn to take a joke,
some day."

"Maybe," Angus retorted. "But I will never learn to take what you are
taking."

Garland flushed angrily. The element of truth in the words stung.

"I'd look well, beating up a boy," he said loftily. "I'm not going to
quarrel with you. When you're older maybe you'll have more sense."

He left Angus, and marched away to the house. Angus looked after him
till the door closed, and then struck straight away across the bare
fields for the timber.

These night rambles by moonlight were a habit which fitted well with his
nature. He was taciturn, reserved, with an infinite capacity, developed
by circumstance for solitude. But that night, as he covered mile after
mile with a swift, springy stride, his mood was as sinister as the black
shadows the great firs threw across his path. His naturally hard, bitter
temper, usually controlled, wa