in the creek. But I
added, if they'd let me know what the damage was, I'd send 'em a draft
to cover it. After a spell of waitin' they said they'd call it square
for two hundred dollars, considering our disappointment. And I sent the
draft. That's spurred them up to get over our statue, I reckon. And, now
that it's coming, it will set us right with the boys."

"And SHE," said Clinton Grey again, pointing to the locked chest,
"belongs to us?"

"Until we can find some lady guest that will take her with the rooms,"
returned the president, a little cynically.

But the arrival of the real statue and its erection in the hotel
vestibule created a new sensation. The members of the Excelsior Company
were loud in its praises except the executive committee, whose coolness
was looked upon by the others as an affectation of superiority. It
awakened the criticism and jealousy of the nearest town.

"We hear," said the "Red Dog Advertiser," "that the long-promised statue
has been put up in that high-toned Hash Dispensary they call a hotel
at Excelsior. It represents an emaciated squaw in a scanty blanket
gathering roots, and carrying a bit of thorn-bush kindlings behind her.
The high-toned, close corporation of Excelsior may consider this a fair
allegory of California; WE should say it looks mighty like a prophetic
forecast of a hard winter on Sycamore Creek and scarcity of provisions.
However, it isn't our funeral, though it's rather depressing to the
casual visitor on his way to dinner. For a long time this work of
art was missing and supposed to be lost, but by being sternly and
persistently rejected at every express office on the route, it was at
last taken in at Excelsior."

There was some criticism nearer home.

"What do you think of it, Miss Marsh?" said the president politely to
that active young secretary, as he stood before it in the hall. The
young woman adjusted her eye-glasses over her aquiline nose.

"As an idea or a woman, sir?"

"As a woman, madam," said the president, letting his brown eyes slip
for a moment from Miss Marsh's corn-colored crest over her straight but
scant figure down to her smart slippers.

"Well, sir, she could wear YOUR boots, and there isn't a corset in
Sacramento would go round her."

"Thank you!" he returned gravely, and moved away. For a moment a wild
idea of securing possession of the figure some dark night, and, in
company with his fellow-conspirators, of trying those beautiful cloth