d,--no such hold as this
newcomer, the child born in their pockets, so to speak,--an expression
first employed by an ardent champion of the impending infant
in defending his righteous solicitude when it was attacked by a
sophisticated and at the same time exasperated nurse.

Two bonfires were started in the open space known as "The Green." The
huge piles of twigs and branches had been thrown up earlier in the
evening. They were in plain view of the "lookout" at the top of Split
Mountain. It had been agreed that if it was a boy one fire was to be the
signal; if a girl, two. The "watch" was to share in the glad tidings!

The cheering awoke Abel Landover from a sound sleep. He turned in his
bunk and growled:

"The damned idiots!"

Mr. Landover did not like children. He declined to sit up half the
night to find out "how things were going." So he went to bed, knowing
perfectly well that his three bunkies would come piling in at some
outlandish hour and jabber about the "kid," and he wouldn't be able to
get back to sleep again for hours.

He was what is commonly known as a "grass widower." His wife rather too
promptly married inside of a month after leaving Reno, and, much to
her own gratification and joy, proceeded to have three very desirable
children within a period of five years, causing him a great deal of pain
and annoyance for the reason that their father had once been regarded as
his best friend,--and now he couldn't abide the sight of him. He hated
children. Now you know the kind of a man he was.

Five tired and thoughtful men were going to bed a little later on in one
of the huts.

"What shall we call her?" came from Randolph Fitts, as he threw one of
his clay-covered shoes into the corner.

"There's only one name for her," said Percival firmly, from the edge of
his bunk. "We'll call her Doraine."

"Good shot!" cried Peter Snipe. "I had two names in mind, but Doraine's
got 'em both beat. It may not be as pretty as Angelica, but it's more
appropriate. Mortimer was the other name I had in mind."

"Yep," was the smothered decision of Michael Malone. His shirt came off,
and then he spoke more distinctly. "We can't do better than to name her
after her birthplace. That's her name. Doraine Cruise. It sounds Irish.
Got music in it. All Irish names have,--leaving out Michael and Patrick
and Cornelius and others applied solely to the creatures who don't
take after their blessed mothers and who grow up to be police