WAYNE.

(14)

I do.

BRIGGS.

(15)

Are you mad?

WAYNE.

(16)

Thoroughly. And extremely busy.

BRIGGS.

(17)

For the last time, Stuyve Briggs, are you going to bounce one
defaulting poet and progeny, arrange to have survey and warnings
posted, order timber and troughs for hatchery, engage extra
patrol--or are you not?

WAYNE.

(18)

No.

BRIGGS.

(19)

(_Received a day later by Mr. Wayne._)

Are you coming?

BRIGGS.

(20)

I'm coming to punch your head.

WAYNE.

II

[Illustration]

When George Wayne arrived at Rose-Cross station, seaburnt, angry, and in
excellent athletic condition, Briggs locked himself in the waiting-room
and attempted to calm the newcomer from the window.

"If you're going to pitch into me, George," he said, "I'm hanged if I
come out, and you can go to Guilford's alone."

"Come out of there," said Wayne dangerously.

"It isn't because I'm afraid of you," explained Briggs, "but it's merely
that I don't choose to present either you or myself to a lot of pretty
girls with the marks of conflict all over our eyes and noses."

At the words "pretty girls" Wayne's battle-set features relaxed. He
motioned to the Pullman porter to deposit his luggage on the empty
platform; the melancholy bell-notes of the locomotive sounded, the train
moved slowly forward.

"Pretty girls?" he repeated in a softer voice. "Where are they staying?
Of course, under the circumstances a personal encounter is superfluous.
Where are they staying?"

"At Guilford's. I told you so in my telegrams, didn't I?"

"No, you didn't. You spoke only of a poet and his eight helpless
children."

"Well, those girls are the eight children," retorted Briggs sullenly,
emerging from the station.

"Do you mean to tell me----"

"Yes, I do. They're his children, aren't they--even if they are girls,
and pretty." He offered a mollifying hand; Wayne took it, shook it
uncertainly, and fell into step beside his friend. "Eight pretty girls,"
he repeated under his breath. "What did you do, Stuyve?"

"What was I to do?" inquired Briggs, nervously worrying his short blond
mustache. "When I arrived here I had made up my mind to fire the poet
and arrange for the hatchery and patrol. The farther I walked through
the dust of this accursed road, lugging my suit-case as you are doing
now, the surer I was that I'd get rid of the poet witho