e motley crew were in various stages of drunkenness and it was
evident that the whisky-traders' song they were singing appealed to
them as about the funniest and most musical thing they ever had
enjoyed, for each man tried to outdo his neighbor in the vim which he
put into his efforts. The leader by the stump had cursed them into
realization of the grave importance of pounding the accompaniment in
proper unison, and after much practice had got them into some semblance
of accord.

"Now fer the last time, fellers!" he shouted, and away they went:

"Rum fer Injuns when they come!
Rum fer the beggars when they go!
That's the trick, my grizzled lads,
To catch the cash and snare the foe!"

_Racka-tacka-tack-tack . . . tack-tack!_
_RACK-tackety-tack-tack . . . tack-tack!_

"This aint goin' to be no cinch, 'bo," came McCorquodale's serious
whisper in Kendrick's ear. "This mob's come in durin' the afternoon.
We better get back an' pick up a gang o' our own--some o' them guineas
from the railroad. Then we can clean this bunch up in proper shape."

"Wait," muttered Kendrick. "What are they doing now?"

One of the men was digging a hole while two others picked up a small
log which they presently up-ended in the hole, tramping the earth about
it firmly. The individual who acted as master of ceremonies gazed
expectantly towards the bunk house where a heavily built man with sandy
hair and whiskers had put in an appearance and was waving his hand.

"There's Red and Weiler!"

"Keep quiet!" commanded Phil.

Corduroys had mounted the stump and was addressing the boisterous
crowd. Apparently he was looked upon as something of a wag, for he was
interrupted frequently by laughter. His voice carried distinctly.

"Gents an' fel--ler citizens," he began, striking an oratorical
attitude, "we now comes to the next num--ber on the program, the which
is costin' a lot o' cold coin. Fif--ty thous--and dollars, gents, is
what it costs to have the Perfessor put on his little stunt. Fif--ty
thous--and dollars! We calls it 'The Double-Cross an' the Get-Away.'
The Perfessor has double-crossed our friend an' worthy leader, Red
McIvor, an' refuses to say where he has buried the hidden treasure.
Instead of fifty thousand good bucks, he hands over a wad o' phoney
bills. Instead o' fifty thousand genooine plunks we will now perceed
to have fifty thousand dollars' worth o' fun--the Perfessor's treat,
gents. He will now dem