ey won't be in the first batch
though. Your part is to be the disinterested traveler, wanting to be
on your way."

"It won't work, Major. This is a put-up job. Even if Applegate and his
strikers aren't along they've given my description. Somebody will know
I was with Foy last night, and they'll know I'm lying."

The Major sighed. "That's so, too. I'm afraid you're in for trouble."

"I'm used to that," said Pringle lightly. "Once, in Arizona----"

"Don't throw it up to me, John," said the Major a trifle sheepishly.
"I'll say this though: I wouldn't ask for a better man in a tight than
you."

"Thanks so much!" murmured Pringle. "And that Sir Hubert Stanley
thing."

"One more point, John: You don't know Foy. I do. Foy'll never give up.
He's desperate--and he's not pleased. There's no question of surrender
and standing trial; understand that. He'd be lynched, probably, if
they ever got him in Las Uvas. A trial, even, would be just lynching
under another name. They don't want to capture him anyway--they want a
chance to kill him."

"I wouldn't want the job," said Pringle.

"Hush!" said Stella. "I hear them coming. Talk about something
else--the war in Europe."

The Major picked up a paper.

"What do you think about the United States building a big navy, John?"
he asked casually.

Stealthy footsteps rustled without.

"Fine!" said Pringle. "I'm strong for it. We want dreadnoughts, and
lots of 'em--biggest we can build. But that ain't all. When we make
the navy appropriations we ought to set by about fifty-some-odd
million and build a big multiple-track railroad, so we can carry our
navy inland in case of war. The ocean is no place for a battleship
these days."

"Stop your kidding!"

"I'm not kidding," said John Wesley indignantly. "I never was twice as
serious in my whole life. My plan is sound, statesman-like--"

"Shut up, you idiot! I want to read."

"Oh, very well, then! I'll grind the coffee."

Men crept close to the open door on each side of the kitchen. Stella
slipped a pan of biscuits in the oven; she laid the table briskly,
with a merry clatter of tinware; her face was cheerful and unclouded.
The Major leaned back in one chair, his feet on another; he was deep
in the paper; he puffed his pipe. John Wesley Pringle twirled the
coffee mill between his knees and sang a merry tune:

_"There were three little mice, playing in the barn--
Inky, dinky, doodum, day!
Though they knew they w