te--and all booky, polite and proper
the next, you know. Why?"

"Bad associations," said Bransford ambiguously. "Also for 'tis my nature
to, as little dogs they do delight to bark and bite. That beef sure
tastes like more."

* * * * *

"And now you may smoke while I pack up," announced the girl when
dessert was over, at long last. "And please, there is something I want
to ask you about. Will you tell me truly?"

"Um--you sing?"

"Yes--a little."

"If you will sing for me afterward?"

"Certainly. With pleasure."

"All right, then. What's the story about?"

Ellinor gave him her eyes. "Did you rob the post-office at
Escondido--really?"

Now it might well be embarrassing to be asked if you had committed a
felony; but there was that behind the words of this naive query--in
look, in tone, in mental attitude--an unflinching and implicit faith
that, since he had seen fit to do this thing, it must needs have been
the right and wise thing to do, which stirred the felon's pulses to a
pleasant flutter and caused a certain tough and powerful muscle to thump
foolishly at his ribs. The delicious intimacy, the baseless faith, was
sweet to him.

"Sure, I did!" he answered lightly. "Lake is one talkative little man,
isn't he? Fie, fie! But, shucks! What can you expect? 'The beast will do
after his kind.'"

"And you'll tell me about it?"

"After I smoke. Got to study up some plausible excuses, you know."

She studied him as she packed. It was a good face--lined, strong,
expressive, vivid; gay, resolute, confident, alert--reckless, perhaps.
There were lines of it disused, fallen to abeyance. What was well
with the man had prospered; what was ill with him had faded and
dimmed. He was not a young man--thirty-seven, thirty-eight--(she was
twenty-four)--but there was an unquenchable boyishness about him,
despite the few frosty hairs at his temples. He bore his hard years
jauntily: youth danced in his eyes. The explorer nodded to herself,
well pleased. He was interesting--different.

The tale suffered from Bransford's telling, as any tale will suffer when
marred by the inevitable, barbarous modesty of its hero. It was a long
story, cozily confidential; and there were interruptions. The sun was
low ere it was done.

"Now the song," said Jeff, "and then----" He did not complete the
sentence; his face clouded.

"What shall I sing?"

"How can I tell? What you will. What can I know about good