t would take Keith off his feet.

"Quite a scheme, don't you think, old chap? I like you. I don't mind
saying I think a lot of you, and there isn't any reason on earth why
you shouldn't go on living in my shoes. There's no moral objection. No
one will miss me. I was the black sheep back in England--younger
brother and all that--and when I had to choose between Africa and
Canada, I chose Canada. An Englishman's pride is the biggest fool thing
on earth, Keith, and I suppose all of them over there think I'm dead.
They haven't heard from me in six or seven years. I'm forgotten. And
the beautiful thing about this scheme is that we look so deucedly
alike, you know. Trim that mustache and beard of yours a little, add a
bit of a scar over your right eye, and you can walk in on old McDowell
himself, and I'll wager he'll jump up and say, 'Bless my heart, if it
isn't Conniston!' That's all I've got to leave you, Keith, a dead man's
clothes and name. But you're welcome. They'll be of no more use to me
after tomorrow."

"Impossible!" gasped Keith. "Conniston, do you know what you are
saying?"

"Positively, old chap. I count every word, because it hurts when I
talk. So you won't argue with me, please. It's the biggest sporting
thing that's ever come my way. I'll be dead. You can bury me under this
floor, where the foxes can't get at me. But my name will go on living
and you'll wear my clothes back to civilization and tell McDowell how
you got your man and how he died up here with a frosted lung. As proof
of it you'll lug your own clothes down in a bundle along with any other
little identifying things you may have, and there's a sergeancy
waiting. McDowell promised it to you--if you got your man. Understand?
And McDowell hasn't seen me for two years and three months, so if I
MIGHT look a bit different to him, it would be natural, for you and I
have been on the rough edge of the world all that time. The jolly good
part of it all is that we look so much alike. I say the idea is
splendid!"

Conniston rose above the presence of death in the thrill of the great
gamble he was projecting. And Keith, whose heart was pounding like an
excited fist, saw in a flash the amazing audacity of the thing that was
in Conniston's mind, and felt the responsive thrill of its
possibilities. No one down there would recognize in him the John Keith
of four years ago. Then he was smooth-faced, with shoulders that
stooped a little and a body that was not to