ed over the top of the hill.

"Now Andrew, please," expostulated Mrs. Hill, and, still breathing hard,
Old Bunk put up his gun and reached for a chew of tobacco.

"Well, all right," he growled, "but you heard what I said--that's the
last doggoned hobo we feed."

"Well--perhaps," she conceded, but Bunker Hill was roused by the memory
of years of ingratitude.

"No 'perhaps' about it," he asserted firmly, "I'll run every last one of
them away. Do you think I'm going to work my head off for my family,
only to be et out of house and home? Do you think I'm going to have you
cooking meals for these miners when they're earning their five dollars a
day? Let 'em buy a lunch at the store!"

"No, but Andrew," protested Mrs. Hill, who was a large, motherly soul
and not to be bowed down by work, "I'm sure that some of them are
worthy."

"Yes, I know you are," he answered, smiling grimly, "that's what you
always say. But you hear me, now; I'm through. Don't you feed another
man."

He turned to his daughter for support, but his bad luck had just begun.
Drusilla was shading her eyes from the sun and staring up the trail.

"Oh, here comes another one," she cried in a hushed voice and pointed up
the creek. He stood at the mouth of the black-shadowed canyon where the
trail comes in from Globe--a young man with wind-blown hair, looking
doubtfully down at the town; but when he saw them he stepped boldly
forth and came plodding down the trail.

"Oh, not this one!" pleaded Mrs. Hill when she saw his boyish face; but
Bunker Hill thrust out his jaw.

"Every one of 'em," he muttered, "the whole works--all of 'em! You women
folks go into the house."

CHAPTER II

BIG BOY

He was a big, fair-haired boy, blue-eyed and clean limbed, and as he
came down the trail there was a spring to his step that not even a limp
could obliterate; and at every stride the great muscles in his chest
played and rippled beneath his shirt. He was a fine figure of a man,
tall and straight as an Apollo, and yet he was a hobo. Never before had
Bunker Hill seen a better built man or one more open-faced and frank,
but he came down the trail with the familiar hobo-limp and Bunker set
his jaws and waited. It was such men as this, young and strong and full
of blood, who had kept him poor for years. Hobo miners, the most expert
of their craft, and begging their grub on the trail!

"Good morning," nodded Hill and squinted down his eyes as the young man
bog