rly droned the Scot.

"Seven thousand!" said Mawson.

There was a stop.

"Seven thousand I'm offered!" cried Jim suddenly. "Seven thousand:--any
advance on seven thousand? Seven thousand:--going once,--seven
thousand,--going twice;--for the third and last time----"

"Seven thoosand and five hunnerrr, and no' a currrrdy mairrr," put in
McAdam, pulling at his long whiskers.

Mawson stuck his hands in his pockets and started off.

"I'm through!" he remarked.

"Sold for seven thousand five hundred dollars, cash," concluded Jim,
with a friendly nod to McAdam, who rubbed his hands together and
grinned.

"The fule!--he doesna ken a barrrgain when he sees it. This rrranch is
worrrth ten if rrrightly managed, and no' by a wheen schule-bairrrns
that would plant tatties upside doon. Come awa' owerrr tae my place
and we'll put this on paperrr."

Jim drew up the agreement in McAdam's kitchen at three o'clock that
morning, got McAdam's cheque for seven thousand five hundred dollars
and, despite the old fellow's cordial invitation to spend the
remainder of the night with him, Jim and Phil set out again for Mrs.
Clunie's.

"We're making money," said Phil.

"We would have made more if we had had that old fire-trap of a place
insured," answered Jim, Scotslike.

"That's what that Redmans gang have been up to;--not cattle this
time."

"Looks like it."

"Well,--the artful Mr. Brenchfield, if he couldn't get me one way, got
me another," remarked Phil.

"What do you mean?" asked Jim, as they cantered along.

"He didn't succeed in buying back his confession, but he took mighty
good care nobody else would get it. It is burned up now all right."

"Is it?" replied Jim; "not if Jimmy Langford knows it!"

"What! Do you mean to say you have it? that you have been carrying
that thing with you all this time?"

"Sure! I never change without changing it, too. It is in my belt here.
So we still have one on Mayor Brenchfield if he cuts up nasty. My, but
he will be chuckling this morning over his fine stroke of business. I
would dearly love to show it to him, but I daresay I better hadn't."

"You're right!" said Phil, "you just better hadn't,--meantime.

"But do you really think, Jim, that he would get his gang to burn up
the place for that?"

"Would he? Great Heavens, man!--that paper means social and material
life or death to your former side-kicker and sparring partner, Graham
Brenchfield."

"And what can we do?"

"Not