The hour that followed was a busy one. Betty was whisked away by Phil to Mrs. Clunie’s for a good, substantial home-made dinner and a general overhaul. Sol rushed home for his new, check suit, then off to the registrar’s for the marriage license accompanied by Jim. Phil next unearthed the valiant Smiler from the basement of a Chinese restaurant in Wynd Alley where he was busy sampling the current day’s bill of fare, gratis. Phil hauled him off to the barber’s for a wash and a haircut, then to the O.K. Supply Store for new clothes, over and under, which set the poor dumb little rascal wondering as to what sin he had committed to warrant the infliction.

The Reverend Anthony Stormer––the venerable old Lutheran pastor––was next informed of the expected arrivals; and, by the time Jim came along upholding Sol in a state of nervous prostration, all was in readiness for the ceremony.

Ten minutes later, Mrs. Clunie arrived escorting Betty Jornsen; pretty, buxom and beaming, and as full of confidence as Smiler was of Chinese noodles.

Smiler could not understand then what the ceremony was all about, nor did he seem to gain any further enlightenment on the matter at any later date.

It was all over within two hours of Betty’s arrival in Vernock.

Sol was for sending Betty to her new home till supper 204 time, intending himself to go back to the smithy with Phil and get down to the heavy work that lay there awaiting completion. But Phil and Jim would have none of it. And when Betty and Mrs. Clunie backed them up, there was nothing left for Sol to do but to obey; so, with three or four hand-bags––half of them borrowed––they were bundled into the Kelowna stage, and nothing more was heard of them for two weeks.

Smiler attended to his own needs as he had had to do often before, and he was back in the basement of the Chinese restaurant in Wynd Alley, finishing his dinner sampling,––with his new rig-out rolled up in a bundle under his arm and garbed in his much beloved rags and tatters.

That was the first of a dozen occasions upon which Smiler was dressed up by various well-meaning members of the community and it was the first of twelve occasions that Smiler resented the interference and went back, at the earliest opportunity, to his old, familiar and well-ventilated draperies.

The next fourteen days were desperate ones for Phil. From the moment he got back to the smithy, repair work piled in on him. Reapers and binders gave way in various parts and had to be put to rights at once, for it was nearing the end of the harvest season and the cold weather was already creeping along. Every horse in the Valley seemed suddenly to require reshoeing; wagon springs broke; buggy tires came off or wore out as they had never done before; morning, noon and night Phil slaved trying to cope with the emergency. There was no help that he could call in, and he would not for worlds have sent word to Sol to end his holiday a moment sooner that might be.

He snatched his meals when and where he could, while everyone clamoured for the immediate execution of his requirements. Finally Phil got up so early and he 205 worked so late, that he made his bed for the time being on a bundle of straw covered with sacking, in a corner beside the forge.

He was young and strong, and he knew his work. He loved the rush of it and he gloried in the doing of things that other men would have groaned at. Above all, he was glad to think that he was now considered of some value in a work-a-day community.

It did not occur to him that day and night labour, even for a little time, had a terribly wearing effect on the physique; that he was losing weight with every twenty-four hours of it and that his cheeks grew paler and a little more gaunt every day of that week or so of extra push.

He chased Jim from the smithy as a worthless time-waster––whenever that worthy showed face––and Jim, for the nonce, had to find companionship and entertainment in his world of Penny Dreadful creation and his Love Knot Untanglements.

One glorious gleam of sunshine burst in on Phil’s world of toil and set his muscles dancing and his heart singing in merry time to the ring of his hammer on the anvil. A perfumed note, bearing an invitation to him from Eileen Pederstone to attend a reception on the sixth evening of the month following, at her new home on the hill, was the dainty messenger of joy.

And what cared Phil if Brenchfield should be there? He had held his own before;––he could do it again. What counted all this hard work?––a puff of wind;––he was going to Eileen Pederstone’s. What matter it how the world wagged?––a tolling bell;––he would dance again with the dainty, little vision with the merry brown eyes, the twinkling feet and the ready tongue. Ho!––life was good; life was great! Life was heaven itself!

Come on! Fill the smithy and the yard with your 206 horses, and I’ll shoe all of them! Block the roads and the by-ways with your wagons and buggies;––what care I for toil? Heap your broken reapers and binders a mountain high, and I’ll stand on top of them before nightfall, with my hammer held defiantly to the heavens and shout “Excelsior, the work is done.” The Fairy Princess has stopped in her procession; she looks my way; she smiles: her galloping courier brings a perfumed favour; she beckons me. Ah, surely! what a Paradise, after all, is this we live in!

In a sweet little world of dreams––in which even a blacksmith may live at times––Phil battled with his tasks and overcame them one by one.

And it was little he cared about the week’s growth of beard that sat on his gaunt face, or for the sweat that ran over his forehead and splashed to his great, bared chest. Pride did not chide him for hands that were horny and begrimed, nor for arms that were red and scarred from the bite of flying sparks.

But it was thus that the lady of his dreams found him, as she wafted in from a gallop over the ranges, with a shoe in her hand and leading a horse that wore only three.

A smile was on her happy face, her cheeks were aglow and her eyes were dancing in childish delight.

Little wonder then that Phil’s heart stopped, then raced with all the mad fury of a runaway; little wonder his face grew pale and his eyes gleamed as he moved back against the wall beside his furnace.

And Eileen’s merry smile faded away like the heat of an Indian Summer’s day before the cool of the approaching night. She stared with widening eyes at the figure before her, for she saw, not the young, sturdy, country blacksmith, but a picture of the past, a fugitive from 207 the police, a gaunt tired man, spent and almost beaten, seeking sanctuary.

And on this occasion, she did not take time to consider how much the man before her still craved for sanctuary.

Her lips parted in fear. Her hand went to her heart and she stepped slowly backward toward the door.

“Oh,––oh,––oh!” was all she uttered.

She dropped the horseshoe at her feet, and, pressing her hands to her eyes as if to shut out a sight that was unwelcome, she ran the remaining distance to the door, pulled herself into her saddle and rode quickly away.

She did not come back, as some might have done, to view the havoc she had wrought. She did not know even that she had wrought havoc; but three hours later, faithful, dumb, little Smiler found the man he so much adored lying on a pile of horseshoes, breathing scarcely at all, and strangely huddled.

That was the day that big, happy Sol Hanson came back to bear his share of the load––and, for the week that followed, he had to bear all of it, for Phil’s overtaxed brain refused to awaken for seventy-two hours and his overworked body declined to limber up for seventy-two hours more.

On the morning of Phil’s return to the smithy, at a moment when Sol’s back was turned, the little perfumed note––which had brought the message from Fairyland––was dropped on the glowing furnace fire and thrust with an iron deep into the red coals.

With it, Phil fancied he was thrusting the little fairy dream, and he felt ever so glad of it. But he did not know, foolish man, that the fires have never been kindled that can burn dreams from Fairyland; that nothing can keep them from whispering back, at unexpected moments, and beckoning to the dreamer through 208 the flames; ay, even through the cold, grey, dead ashes, when these are all that remain of the dancing passion-fires that have revelled and rioted themselves to exhaustion and oblivion.

On the evening of the reception at John Royce Pederstone’s, Phil failed to land home from work at his usual time, and, as the hour drew near when they should be leaving, Jim Langford worried himself not a little, for he knew that Phil had received an invitation––the same as he had done––and he had noticed also how happy his friend had seemed over it. Of course, of the recognition at the smithy between Eileen and Phil he knew nothing, and even if he had known he would not have understood, for, so far, he had not even guessed at Phil’s previous history nor at the connection there was between Phil and Graham Brenchfield.

Before going up to Pederstone’s, Jim called at the smithy, but found the place closed up for the night. He hurried along to Sol Hanson’s little home, but the lovebirds there could tell him no more than that Phil had quit work at the accustomed hour, that Smiler was also a truant; which made it possible that the two had gone off together on some boyish adventure. There was nothing left for Jim to do after that but to go to Royce Pederstone’s alone, in the hope that Phil would be there or would show up later.

Everyone in Vernock of any importance was at the reception, in the company of his wife or sweetheart; but there was no sign of Phil. And the hours wore quickly on without his appearing.

Eileen––bright, blushing, buoyant and busy––found time to corner Jim.

“What has happened to Mr. Ralston? I––I thought he would be sure to be here.”

Jim thought her tone was just a little strained and that her colour went somewhat suddenly.

“I haven’t the slightest idea! He didn’t show up to-night at home; yet he has been aching for this little affair since he received your invitation.”

“Oh, I––I hardly think so, Jim. He is not the man to ache much over this kind of thing. You don’t suppose anything serious could have happened?” she asked with a show of anxiety.

“I don’t. But I’m sure only something serious would keep him away. However,––what’s the good of worrying!––Phil can look out for himself pretty good.”

“Yes,––I daresay!” she said absently, staring at the dancers as they glided round in the next room.

Jim put his hand on her arm and moved her round to him.

“Eileen,––what is it that is troubling you? You are not so terribly interested in Phil as all that,––are you?”

She roused herself.

“Me? Oh dear no! Not any more than I am in Sol Hanson, in Mr. Todd, in––in Jim Langford,” she bantered. “Why should I? I know him only in the most casual of casual ways.”

“Have you seen him since he was invited here?” Jim asked bluntly.

“Ye-yes!––just for a moment in the smithy the day he took sick. I thought,––oh Jim!––I thought possibly he might have misunderstood something––something that happened there at that time,––but––ah well!––anyway, it doesn’t matter now.

“He does not say very much at any time, does he, Jim? He’s a queer fellow.”

“Ay!” said Jim drily, “and you’re a queer little fellow yourself, Eileen,––eh!”

“Do you know anything of him before he came to 210 Vernock?” she inquired suddenly, with a change of tone.

“Practically nothing! He has kept that a sealed book, and it is none of my affairs; but I do know that since he came here he has been the real stuff, and that is good enough for Jim Langford.”

She smiled.

“Oh you men! You stand by your pals to the very last ditch; while a woman will desert her woman friend at the first one.

“Never mind! Let us forget Mr. Ralston meantime.

“Did you hear the news, Jim?––the great news! Daddy,––my own daddy has been offered the portfolio of Minister of Agriculture on the new Cabinet. He will be the Honourable John Royce Pederstone. And this his first session in Parliament too! Isn’t it great?”

“Je––hosephat!” Jim jumped up. “And I never heard a thing.”

“I don’t wonder at that, Jim. Dad only got the wire an hour ago making the definite offer.”

“By jingo!––I must go and give him my congratulations. Here’s the Mayor looking for you, Eileen. I’ll leave you to him. I must find your dad.”

And while the reception at John Royce Pederstone’s was at its height, Phil Ralston was trudging the hills alone, coming over the ranges from Lumby, a village which lay several miles distant, where he had gone by stage direct from the smithy. He walked in the melancholy enjoyment of his own thoughts. It did him good––and he knew it––to get off in this way when things were not going to his liking. It gave him an opportunity to review himself in the cold blood of retrospect, without interference; and it gave him time quietly to review the conduct of others about him; a chance to decide whether he was right or wrong in the 211 position he had assumed; a chance to plan his future course from what had already taken place.

It was a crisp, frosty night, with a deep blue velvet dome of cloudless sky overhead, with star-diamonds that flashed and twinkled with ever varying colours, until a crescent moon, shaped like the whip of an orange, rose up over the hills to the east, cold, luminous and silvery, and paled the lesser twinkling lights into insignificance and ultimate obscurity.

As Phil topped the last hill overlooking Vernock, his head was high and so were his spirits, for he had made up his mind that come what might he would pursue his way calmly and earnestly to the end as he thought fit, and, if Eileen Pederstone cared to betray his secret, he would meet that difficulty as he had met others.

He looked down into the town before him, but its usual fairy-like aspect was absent, for the town fathers were beginning to get frugal and did not use their electricity on the main streets when the moon was up or when the snow was lying. Only the smaller lights of the dwelling houses gave out any signs of life.

He dropped gradually down, then across an orchard and on to the main highway leading to Vernock.

As he was passing the town jail, his attention was attracted by an unusual commotion there. Voices were gabbling noisily and quite a crowd was gathered at the main entrance. He hurried over. The first man he ran against was Langford, who accosted Phil in a rush of Doric, which at once informed him that something serious must be wrong.

“Where ha’e ye been, man? I’ve been pryin’ for ye everywhere.”

“Walking!” answered Phil shortly. “What’s the matter?”

“Matter! De’il tak’ it,––I thocht the whole toon kent by this time. I thocht maybe ye were efter them.”

“Well, I’ll be hanged!” exclaimed Phil as the truth dawned on him.

“Ay,––ye may weel say it! What did I tell ye? Didna I say they’d never face trial? The eight o’ them broke awa’ three or four hours ago. It was real nicely planned.

“Ye see the airshaft there! It runs richt into the top o’ the wall and ventilates the prison where the men sleep. There was ootside collusion, of coorse. Standin’ on a horse, I guess they threw a rope into the airshaft from the ootside and it slid richt doon to the passageway, inside. They say one of the prisoners was a good hand at pickin’ locks and that he did them a’ wi’ a hairpin. Maybe he did. But they got oot o’ their cells anyway, climbed the rope one at a time, crawled up the airshaft and out. Just look at that airshaft––it would hold a half a dozen men at a time nearly. They might as well have left an open door for them as have that contraption,––no wire protection over the ends, nothing but hinged lids that anyone can raise at any time.”

“And they’re gone?” asked Phil helplessly.

“Gone,––ay! good and gone! Like as no’ they’re ‘ower the border’ by this time, like ’a’ the blue bonnets’ in the song.

“They had horses waitin’ for them.”

“But, land sakes, Jim!––where the deuce were the jailers, the police, all this time?” asked Phil.

Jim laughed.

“Where did ye expect them to be? Chief Palmer was at Royce Pederstone’s reception. Howden––well, it seems Howden had a date on with one of the Kenora waitresses. Ryans, the jailer, says everything was quiet. He happened to open an unused cell, where he kept his brooms and things, and, when he was inside somebody 213 slammed the door on him and locked him in. A trump-up from beginning to ending, and too thin to keep a draught out even. Phil, it sure would make one’s stomach turn; politics, justice, protection, the whole thing would seem to be a farce from start to finish, and we are parties to it ourselves, aiding and abetting it; too weak or else too lazy to issue even a mild protest.”

“And what is being done now? Who put you on to it?”

“Oh,––that youngster Smiler, as usual. He knows everything that goes on. The wee deevil came up to Pederstone’s. They wouldn’t let him in, but he shot through the door and made for me. Brenchfield was standing by and saw the dumb show, and understood it quicker than I did, for he was off like a greyhound, and so was Palmer.

“Before I got down here, he had his own pursuit gang working and they were away, hot-foot, after the runaways,––perhaps.”

“Well,––I guess that ends it,” lamented Phil.

“I guess it just does,” agreed Jim. “Palmer leading the chase, and Brenchfield at his ear telling him how to do it before he set out. Gee, man!––I wish we had been in it, though. There would have been hell apopping for somebody, for I’m just in the mood.”

“But didn’t Brenchfield go, too?”

“Not so far as I know! He was here, got them started after much pow-powing with Palmer; then someone came for him and he went off again in a hurry. One of the gang, no doubt! Damn them!”

“Oh, oh, oh,––Jim Langford!” interrupted a well-known, melodious voice at Jim’s elbow.

Jim and Phil turned quickly to the speaker.

It was Eileen Pederstone, wrapped up snugly in a warm, fur coat. Apparently she was alone.

“Great Scot, lassie!––what are you doing here?”

“Good evening, gentlemen!” she said politely.

Phil returned her salutation, with a very uneasy feeling inside.

“Little ladies should be sleeping in their beds,” put in Jim in a tone of admonition.

“I wouldn’t mind if I were now,” she returned. “I just couldn’t resist coming down here when I heard of the breakaway from jail, and so many of the men felt they had to rush off from our place.

“I coaxed daddy to bring me down. I lost him somewhere in the crowd half an hour ago.”

“Ugh-huh!––and what else?” inquired Jim.

“Well, I am positively sick of having my dad for a member of parliament. I never seem to have him to myself for five minutes on end. I don’t know where he has gone to, I’m tired and,––and I’m looking for some big, strong man to see me home up the hill. Would you mind, Jim?”

“No, indeed, Eileen! I would be glad to do so,––but unfortunately I have promised Thompson, the Government Agent, to stay here in charge till he gets back. But Phil here will see you home, and be delighted to do so. Eh, Phil?”

“Why––why, certainly! Only too pleased!” said Phil, although he could have punched Jim’s head for putting him in such a predicament. He half hoped that Eileen Pederstone would find an excuse, but instead, she accepted the proffered service without demur.

They started off immediately. Neither spoke for a hundred yards or so, for a constraint seemed to be holding both back; the one did not know of anything fitting to say, and the other had so much to say that she was at a loss to know how or where to begin.

Womanlike, Eileen was first to break the silence.

“I was sorry, Mr. Ralston, that you were too busy to come to our place to-night––or, I should say, last night, for it is morning now.”

“I wasn’t exactly too busy,” returned Phil frankly. “I walked the hills for the good of my health, and I enjoyed myself splendidly.”

“Oh!––I thought––I thought you would be sure to come, if only for daddy’s sake,––unless something serious would prevent you,” said the young lady slowly.

It was dark and impossible for either one to see the other clearly, so they had to be guided by the voice alone.

“Yes,––I guess probably I should have come, but–––”

Eileen interrupted him.

“Mr. Ralston,––don’t let us fence any more. That’s what everybody does nowadays. It isn’t honest. Can’t we be honest?”

“Of course we can, Miss Pederstone! I am glad you put it so plainly. Now, if you had been in my shoes,––would you have come?”

“Oh, please don’t put it that way. We have gone through too much for that. We know too much of each other for argument.”

“You mean, you know too much about me,” corrected Phil, a little bitterly.

“Yes!––and, believe me or not as you will, I never thought, I never guessed––until––until I saw you that afternoon in the smithy, tired-out, begrimed, your hair awry and your clothes loose about you––I never dreamed that you––that you––that–––”

“That I was the escaped convict you befriended!”

Eileen put her hand on his arm.

“Mr. Ralston,––why do you have to be so callous; why are you so severe with yourself?”

There was a touch of irony in the short laugh Phil gave.

“One can’t afford to be otherwise with one’s self,” 216 he retorted. “It is a privilege one is permitted to take.”

“It is a privilege you have no right to take and––and I am so sorry if I hurt your feelings that afternoon. I did not think for a second how you might misconstrue my behaviour, although––although I could see it all afterwards. Won’t you please understand me? I was so surprised, so taken aback,––the picture returned to me so suddenly––that I could not think properly. I just had to run out into the open and away, in order to pull myself together.”

Phil walked along by her side, up the hill, without answering.

“Won’t you believe me?” she pleaded.

“I can never forget that you were kind to me when I needed it most.”

“Then you believe me,” she reiterated, “and you will believe that I shall never, never, never tell anyone your secret?”

The moon sailed out behind the clouds, and Phil looked down and saw a pale, earnest face searching his.

“Yes!––I do believe you,” he answered. “I could not do anything else now.”

“Thanks ever so much!” Eileen smiled.

And with that smile, the ache that had been at Phil’s heart for some days took wings and flew away to the Land of Delusion from whence it came.

“May I ask just one little question before we bury that small bit of the past?” Eileen asked.

“Yes!––what is it?”

“Does anyone else up here know that you are the same person who––who was recaptured that night?”

“Yes!––one other knows.”

“Jim Langford?”

“No, not Jim––although I think I may have to tell him some day. It is awkward at times.”

“Your secret would be safe with him.”

“I know it would.”

“If it isn’t Jim who knows, it can be only one other,” she reasoned, “Mayor Brenchfield.”

“Yes!”

“Is he likely to betray you?”

“He would if he felt free to do it;––but as things stand, he daren’t.”

“Oh!”

That simple little word which can mean so many things, was Eileen’s answer.

She sighed, then she brightened up again.

“Well!––that has been got rid of, anyway.”

On climbing the steepest part of the hill road, she questioned Phil once more.

“Do you intend making blacksmithing your life’s business?”

“Why? Isn’t it a good calling?”

“Oh, yes! My dad was a blacksmith for the most of his life. But I think you are intended for something different, something bigger than that. You have had more education, for one thing, than my dear old daddy had.”

Phil laughed.

“That is quite flattering––but your dad has my education beaten a thousand miles by his experience and shrewdness. I guess I shall have to keep to blacksmithing until I get some money ahead and until that ‘something different’ that you speak of, turns up.”

“I should dearly love to see you and Jim in partnership. You would make a great team, for you never quarrel.”

“Is that the secret of successful business partnership?”

“I think it is an important one of them.”

“I daresay you are right,” said Phil. “But what are we to do?”

“What do others do? Look at the men without brains, without even business ability, who have made money––heaps of it––buying and selling land right in this Valley, in this town, and who started in without a dollar. Why,––I could name them by the score;––Fraser & Somerville; McWilliams; Peter Brixton; McIntyre & Anderson, and even that good-for-nothing, Rattlesnake Dalton;––why, the town swarms with them. If they can do it, what could not two smart men, honest, with up-to-date business methods, do? Property has been changing owners hand-over-fist lately and I know it is merely the beginning. Next year property will move faster than ever; money for investment is pouring in; the people are flocking westward; values are rising; the ranches are producing more than ever; prices are improving; irrigation schemes are afoot;––why, it simply cannot be held back. Dad, Mayor Brenchfield, Ben Todd,––they are all anticipating it.”

Phil almost gasped at Eileen’s enthusiasm.

“They are the monied land-owners, the vested interests,” he put in. “It suits them to anticipate.”

“And, believe me, they will realise,” retorted Eileen.

“Almost thou persuadest me to be a real estate agent,” he bantered.

“Well,––one thing I do know; no man ever got very far ahead working for the other fellow. If a man isn’t worth more to himself than he is to someone else, you can bet that someone else is not going to employ him.”

“You talk as if you had worked it all out, Miss Pederstone.”

“I have, too!” she went on. “If you are holding down a job at a fair price, it ought to be a sufficient indication to you that you should be at it on your own account.”

Eileen’s ardour set a spark aglow in Phil, but, manlike, he was prone to ignore it and even to argue against her conclusions.

“You must pardon me if I have said too much,” apologised Eileen at last, “only, only I have tried to speak for your own good, and Jim’s, for there is so much good in Jim that just wants elbow room;––and besides, knowing what I know, I should like so much to see you make good.”

“I haven’t any fear at all of the ultimate ‘making good,’” replied Phil. “I have always known that it would come sooner or later. It has never been merely a hope with me, it has been an inward knowledge since I was quite a little chap.”

“Why then, that knowledge, backed by your every endeavour, cannot fail to realise great success for you. It is fear of failure that kills so many successful ventures before their birth. Without fear––which is at best a cowardly bugaboo, the world would be heaven.”

“Well,––heaven is where the devil isn’t,” said Phil, “so fear must be the very devil himself.”

“Fear is the only devil I know,” asserted Eileen.

“I am afraid I have the misfortune to be acquainted with quite a lot of other little devils,” he laughed.

They crossed the road together, along the west-end of Mayor Brenchfield’s local ranch and town house, which was divided from the new Royce Pederstone property by the big house and grounds which that eccentric Englishman, Percival DeRue Hannington, had bought for himself and now occupied in lordly bachelordom.

Several of Brenchfield’s stables and out-houses were situated quite close to the roadway.

In passing, Phil observed a faint light in one of these, which swung as if in the hands of someone moving about.

As they continued along, he fancied he heard the sound of voices, one of which rose and fell as if in anger.

His momentary curiosity caused him to stop conversing and to listen more intently.

One of the voices rose again; there was the distinct sound of the crack of a whip, followed by a high-pitched throaty articulation as of an animal in pain. It sounded so helpless and piteous, that Eileen drew herself up nervously and shuddered. She gripped at Phil’s arm.

Ever suspicious where Brenchfield or any of his followers were concerned, and quickly roused to anger at the slightest abuse shown to any of the lower creation, Phil acted on the impulse of the moment.

“Please stay here for a second, Eil––Miss Pederstone. I am going over to see what is doing there.”

He turned, vaulted the fence, and bending low he crept cautiously over to the barn. At the window, he rose slowly upright and peered inside.

The horror of what he saw there remained focussed on his mind ever afterwards; and always when he turned to that picture in the album of his memory, his gorge rose and a murderlust that could hardly be stifled filled his entire being.

He darted to the door of the barn. It was unfastened. He flung it open and rushed inside, throwing himself with mad fury on Brenchfield, who had his coat off and his sleeves rolled up. He had a long whip in his hand, poised high in the air, and was about to continue his devilish cruelty.

The Mayor swung round and, before Phil got to him, the downward stroke of the whip caught the latter across the head and shoulders. He staggered for the fraction of a second, then closed with his adversary, catching the right arm that held the whip and, turning it smartly over his shoulder in a trick Jim Langford had taught him, 221 had Brenchfield groaning with the pain of the strain on his elbow. He relaxed his fingers and the whip dropped to the strawed floor.

Phil released his hold, whirled round and shot his right fist full in the face of his opponent. His left hand followed, sending Brenchfield backward. Recovering quickly, the Mayor came back at Phil, cursing roundly. But strong and heavy as he was, he was no match now for the sturdy, young blacksmith before him. And it was not very many minutes before he knew it.

They fought around the stable like wild cats. Time and again Brenchfield got in on Phil, but for every time he did Phil got in on him half a dozen. The heavier man’s breath began to give out. His face was cut and bleeding and his vision was becoming more and more faulty as time went on.

“Skookum!” he cried furiously. “What the hell’s the matter with you? Brain this fool with the lantern, can’t you?”

But his henchman, Skookum, had already perceived how the fight was going and his discretion proved much greater than his valour. He dropped the lantern and darted out at the door. As good luck would have it, the lantern fell right-end up and, after wobbling precariously on its rim, sat upright in the corner, blinked, then continued to shed a fitful light over the scene.

Phil, with anger unabated, darted in on Brenchfield, smashing at him right and left. The latter tottered. Phil sprang in and clutched at his throat. Both went forcibly to the ground, with Brenchfield undermost. Phil gripped and squeezed and shook with almost ferocious brutality, until the Mayor’s struggles became less and less violent, and finally ceased. And after that, Phil’s grip did not relax, for that murderlust, which he had read 222 of and heard of but had never before understood, was on him.

Had it not been for a quiet, pleading voice and a little hand that slipped over his and along his fingers, pushing its way between his and the soft throat of his adversary, the sunlight would have gone out of his life for all time.

“Please, Phil,––please!” she cried. “Don’t! Phil––you would not kill him! You must not,––for my sake, for my sake! He isn’t worth it. Phil, Phil,––let him go!”

And the murderlust––as it had done so often before at the gentle but all powerful pleading of God’s women––shrank back, dwindled down, then faded into its native oblivion.

Phil’s fingers relaxed and he rose slowly, working his hands convulsively, then pushing his wet hair back from his forehead, as he looked first down at the gasping figure of his hated adversary and then in open-eyed amazement at Eileen.

“Thanks!” he said, very quietly.

“Why did you do that?” she said. “What has he done?”

For answer, Phil caught her by the arm and turned her about-face.

A bundle of rags was trussed against the post of one of the stalls. Phil lifted the lantern from the ground and held it up.

“Oh!––oh, dear God!” she wailed piteously, running forward with hands outstretched. “Quick, Phil!––loose the ropes. The hound!––oh, the miserable, foul hound!” she continued.

Phil drew a pocket knife and slashed the ropes that held poor, little, half-unconscious Smiler.

They set the boy gently in a corner; and slowly, in response to crooning words and loving hands that stroked 223 his dirty, wet brow, he came to; and what a great smile he had for Eileen as she laid her tear-stained cheek against the cold, twisted face.

Phil turned as Brenchfield was slowly rising on his arm. He went over and picked up the whip.

“What are you going to do?” anxiously cried Eileen.

“Just three!” said Phil, “for the three he gave that poor, helpless little devil. Say ‘No’ and I won’t.”

It was a challenge.

For answer, Eileen hid her face among Smiler’s rags. And three times, with all the force of a young blacksmith’s arm behind it, that whip rose and fell across the shoulders of Vernock’s Mayor, ere it was broken with a snap and tossed by Phil among the straw.

A little later and Smiler was on his feet, little the worse.

Eileen led him outside.

Phil and Brenchfield were then alone.

“Damn you, for an interloping jail-breaker! I’ll fix you for this before you’re much older,” growled the Mayor.

“Damn all you like,” answered Phil, “but one word of any kind from you of what has happened here to-night and you are the man who will be trying to break jail. Keep your mouth shut, and we are square on what has happened. Say as much as a word and––well,––it’s up to you.”

“Oh, you go to hell!” exclaimed Brenchfield.