"Judge" Riley had once been on the bench, but for some reason had resigned and gone back to his profession, hanging out his shingle in Mowbray. There was no doubt of his natural and professional ability, but it was the inability to let liquor alone, even when business demanded attention. Hence he had little of the latter.

He was not sober when Angus entered his untidy little office. At Angus' entrance he stared up with dull eyes from beneath a thick thatch of gray hair which had fallen across his forehead like a horse's forelock. For a moment he had difficulty in identifying his visitor, but succeeded.

"Angus," he muttered, "sure, yes, Angus Mackay. Sit down, Angus. And how is your father?"

"My father is dead, Judge Riley," Angus reminded him.

"Dead!" said the judge, "dead!" His voice altered at the repetition of the word, and his eyes lost a little of their dullness. "Why, I knew that," he muttered to himself, "I knew Mackay was dead. I—I beg your pardon, Angus. Not—not exactly right just now. A little—a little touch of something. All right, presently."

"I'll come in again," Angus said. "I wanted to see you on business."

"Bus'ness?" the judge queried. "Always 'tend to bus'ness. Not so much of it now. State your bus'ness."

Though he did not see much use in doing so in the judge's condition, Angus told him what had happened and asked what powers the executor possessed.

"Exec'tor governed by will," the judge told him. "Never give 'pinion on written instrument without seeing instrument."

"You drew the will yourself, judge—at least it has your name on it."

"Good will, then," said the judge, "perfec'ly good will."

"There's nothing in it about renting the place."

"Exec'tor's powers broad," said the judge. "Gen'ral law of trustees. Governed by will, though. Princ'ples governing construction of will—"

But just then the judge was in no condition to enunciate them. His voice trailed off into a murmur and his head dropped.

"I'll come in again," said Angus, "and pay for your advice. What do you charge, judge?"

"Charge!" muttered the judge lifting his head. "Charge, Chester, charge! On, Stan—"

"Your fee," Angus interrupted.

"Oh, fee!" said the judge. "Yes, fee. Very proper. Fund'mental princ'ple of law, never neglect fee. Fifty dollars!"

"Fifty dollars!" Angus gasped.

"Merely nom'nal fee," the judge murmured. "Avoid lit'gation, young man, 'void lit'gation!" And his head fell forward and he slept.

Disappointed in obtaining legal advice from the judge, Angus left his office. He was determined, however, to know where he stood, and two days afterward he entered the judge's office again. This time the judge was sober and busy.

"Glad to see you, Angus," he greeted cheerfully, "sit down and have a chat."

Angus sat down and, taking fifty dollars in bills from his pocket, handed the money across the desk. The judge did not take it. He frowned at the tenderer.

"What is this?" he demanded.

"Your fee," Angus explained.

"For what?"

"For telling me what I want to know."

"Indeed!" rasped the judge. "And how the devil do you know that I can or will tell you what you want to know? And who gave you the authority to fix my fee?"

"You fixed it yourself," Angus reminded him. "When I was here two days ago you told me your fee for advice was fifty dollars; and now I have brought the money for the advice."

A dull color rose in the old lawyer's cheeks.

"You mean I was too drunk to give it," he said. "I remember that you were here, but nothing about fifty dollars. Put it back in your pocket, and tell me what you want to know."

"But I want to pay for what I get."

"Well, you won't," the judge snapped.

"Why not?"

"Because I regulate my own charges," the judge told him. "I've enjoyed your father's hospitality and yours, and not a cent would you Mackays ever accept for the time you lost, or for the hire of horses or their feed, or mine. Damned proud Highland Scotch, that must always give and never take! Put your money in your pocket, I tell you, and let me know what's worrying you."

So, seeing that he meant it, Angus put his money back and stated his case.

"H'm," said the judge. "So Braden wants to rent the ranch, does he, and sell some stock. Under certain circumstances that might be expedient. An executor's powers are broad enough, within certain limits, which you probably wouldn't understand. But what do you want to do yourself? What do you think is the best thing for you and your sister and brother?"

"I want to stay on the ranch. I can make a living there. Jean and Turkey are going to school now, and it will be some years before they are through with it. Then it will be time enough to think of another school."

"How about yourself?" the judge queried. "You are at the age when you should be laying the foundations of more education if you are to get it at all."

"I have thought of that," Angus replied, "and I do not think I have the head for books, like Jean. I might spend years learning things that might be well enough to know, perhaps, but of no real use to make a living, which is what I have to do. And meanwhile the ranch would be run down and the ground be worked out and dirty with weeds. And then there is my promise to my father. I am taking his place as well as I can; and that place is on the ranch."

"I see," said the judge thoughtfully. "You may be right, my boy. Many a good rancher has been spoilt to make a poor something else. The professions are crowded with failures. But let's go back to the point: Whether Braden has or has not the power to rent the ranch and sell stock, is immaterial so long as it is not done. I will see him, and I think I can explain the situation to him perhaps more clearly than you can. How old are you?"

"Eighteen," Angus replied. "I wish I was older."

The judge looked at him and sighed. "Believe this," he said; "that when you are older—much older—you will wish much more and just as vainly to be eighteen. It's three years before you come of age. Even then—" He broke off and for a moment was silent. "Angus, you are a close-mouthed boy. If in the future you have any trouble with Braden, or if he or anybody else makes you any proposition involving the ranch, will you come to me with it?"

"I'll be very glad to," Angus told him gratefully.

"All right. And, Angus, I'm going to give you a word of advice, which may sound strange from me. Never drink. Never start. Not only not now, but five years hence, nor ten, nor thirty, nor forty."

"I don't intend to," Angus said, in surprise. "I don't think I'd ever drink much. There isn't anything in it, it seems to me."

"You're wrong," the judge told him gravely. "You know nothing about it. In youth there is pleasure in it, and good fellowship that warms the heart, and bright eyes and soft lips—which you know nothing about yet—and dreams of ambition and temporary equality with the gods; and later in life there are the faces and voices of old friends, of men and women dead before their time, and the golden past and golden youth leaps and lives again, and the present is forgotten. And at last—Do you know what there is at last, Angus?"

"No, sir," said the boy with equal gravity. "What is there?"

"Damnation!" the judge replied slowly. "Damnation, deep and living. The damnation of those who knowing the better have chosen the worse; who living the worse can yet see the better and the great gulf fixed between. The hell of the hereafter—phutt!" And the judge snapped his fingers.

The boy stared at him wonderingly. The judge interpreted his thought.

"The gulf is fixed, because the will, which is the only thing that can bridge it, is the first thing to be destroyed. Where there is no will to fight there is no fight. And you think, too, that this advice comes strangely from me. But who can speak with greater authority—I, or the man who never took a drink in his life?"

"You, of course," Angus admitted.

"Yes, I," said the judge. "And I tell you who are on the threshold of manhood to let liquor alone; not because there is nothing in it, as you say in your ignorance, but because there are most things—or the semblance of most things—in it that the heart of man desires. Remember not to prove these things. That's all I have to say on the subject. And now clear out, for I am busy."

But when Angus had gone the judge did not appear to be very busy. He filled a disreputable old pipe with a somewhat shaky hand, and lighting it passed into a period of reflection. At the end of it he put on his hat and proceeded up the street to Mr. Braden's office.

Mr. Braden, spick and span and freshly shaven, enjoying a very good cigar, looked with surprise and some distaste at the rumpled, unpressed clothes, unshaven cheeks and untidy hair of the old lawyer. He had little or no use for him.

"And what is it this morning, judge?" he asked.

"Mackay estate," said the judge.

Mr. Braden's eyes closed a little.

"Yes, I know you drew Mackay's will," he admitted, "but Crosby and Parks do all my business, and of course—"

"Wrong foot," said the judge, "I'm not asking for any of your business, Braden. Angus Mackay tells me you were speaking of renting the ranch, and he wanted to know if you had the power to do it."

"Of course I have," Mr. Braden asserted. "The boy—"

"I told him," the judge went on, "that whether you had the power or not, it was most unlikely that you would exercise it."

"What do you know about it?" Mr. Braden demanded brusquely.

"Not a great deal just yet; but enough to tell him that."

"Well, that may be your personal opinion. I haven't made up my mind yet. But if I consider it in the interests of the estate to rent the ranch to a competent man I shall most certainly do so."

"Poole a competent man?" the judge queried.

"I believe so. What do you know about him?"

"Not a great deal—yet," the judge returned again. "What makes you think it would be best to rent the place—to a competent man?"

"Under the circumstances I should think it would be obvious."

"If it is obvious why isn't your mind made up?"

"Look here," Mr. Braden snapped, "you aren't cross-examining me, Riley!"

The judge smiled blandly, but somehow the smile reminded Mr. Braden of the engaging facial expression of a scarred old Airedale.

"Perhaps you'll explain the obvious, Braden."

"I don't know why I should explain anything to you. I don't recognize your right to ask me any questions whatever."

"Pshaw!" said the judge. "Think a little, Braden."

Whatever Mr. Braden thought he saw fit to adopt a different tone.

"Just look at the situation from my standpoint," he said. "By their father's untimely death these children are thrown on the world with no ready money whatever. Their only source of income is the ranch, which they are too young and inexperienced to make pay. The only sensible thing to do is to put it into the hands of some competent man, so that it will yield a steady income. Isn't that common sense?"

"As you state it—yes," the judge admitted.

"Ha, of course it is," said Mr. Braden triumphantly. "Then as to the children themselves, I feel my responsibility. They must not be allowed to grow up wild like—er—cayuses, as it were. They must have an education to fit them for the Battle of Life, and as you know they can't get that at a country school. The rental of the ranch, plus the proceeds of a sale of some of the stock could not be better employed than in sending them to some first-class institution. In these days education is the right of every child. It is the key to Success, which, when Opportunity knocks at the door—What the devil are you grinning at?"

"Go on."

"Well, that's all I was going to say," said Mr. Braden whose wings of fancy had suddenly dragged before the old lawyer's cynical smile. "Rent the place; get money; apply the money to educate the children. That's it in a nutshell. Any court would approve such action of an executor."

"Possibly—on an ex parte application. But meantime who pays the mortgage?"

"Mortgage?" said Mr. Braden.

"The mortgage Adam Mackay made to you on the ranch to obtain money to enable him to buy timber limits which were subsequently fire-swept. That's subsisting, isn't it?"

"Certainly it is." There was a shade of defiance in Mr. Braden's tone. "I hope I am not a harsh creditor. The interest might run along and all the rental go toward educating the children."

"Very creditable to your heart," said the judge. "But practically the result would be that the interest would accumulate and compound, and that when these young people had received the education which is the key to Success the property would be saddled with a very heavy encumbrance, more, in fact, than they might care to assume."

"Well," snapped Mr. Braden, "what would you have me do? Insist on my interest and rob these poor children of their chance of life?"

"Very hard situation, isn't it?" said the judge blandly. "It is just as well to look it in the face, though. If, some years hence, the children couldn't pay off these mortgage arrears the property would have to be sold. In fact you might be forced to buy it in to protect yourself."

"Do you suggest—"

"I don't suggest anything. Let us look at another angle of it. Suppose the place is rented and a crop or two fails and the lessee proves incompetent. Then the time comes when, to educate the children, the property, or some of it, must be sold. Again you might be forced to buy it in to protect yourself."

"I don't want the ranch," Mr. Braden said.

"No, of course not. But that is the situation. Now young Angus is a well-grown boy. I think he can run the ranch fairly well. The other children are going to a school which is good enough for their present needs. Angus feels very strongly about the matter. In fact I think he would ask me to oppose any endeavor to rent the place."

"Are you threatening me with a lawsuit?"

"Not at all. There can be no action unless there are grounds for one, and of course a wise trustee walks very carefully. That's all I have to say. Good morning, Braden."

Mr. Braden from his window looked after the bulky, square-set figure of the old lawyer as he made his way down the street.

"You will, will you, you old bum!" he muttered. Then his gaze shifted to a large map of the district which hung on the wall. For some minutes he contemplated it, and then his pudgy finger tapped the exact spot which represented the Mackay ranch. Then half aloud he uttered an eternal truth. "There's sev'ral ways," said Mr. Braden, "of skinning a cat."