Now that the strain was over, Thorpe experienced a great weariness. The long journey through the forest, his sleepless night on the train, the mental alertness of playing the game with shrewd foes all these stretched his fibers out one by one and left them limp. He accepted stupidly the clerk's congratulations on his success, left the name of the little hotel off Fort Street as the address to which to send the deeds, and dragged himself off with infinite fatigue to his bed-room. There he fell at once into profound unconsciousness.

He was awakened late in the afternoon by the sensation of a strong pair of young arms around his shoulders, and the sound of Wallace Carpenter's fresh voice crying in his ears:

“Wake up, wake up! you Indian! You've been asleep all day, and I've been waiting here all that time. I want to hear about it. Wake up, I say!”

Thorpe rolled to a sitting posture on the edge of the bed, and smiled uncertainly. Then as the sleep drained from his brain, he reached out his hand.

“You bet we did 'em, Wallace,” said he, “but it looked like a hard proposition for a while.”

“How was it? Tell me about it!” insisted the boy eagerly. “You don't know how impatient I've been. The clerk at the Land Office merely told me it was all right. How did you fix it?”

While Thorpe washed and shaved and leisurely freshened himself, he detailed his experiences of the last week.

“And,” he concluded gravely, “there's only one man I know or ever heard of to whom I would have considered it worth while even to think of sending that telegram, and you are he. Somehow I knew you'd come to the scratch.”

“It's the most exciting thing I ever heard of,” sighed Wallace drawing a full breath, “and I wasn't in it! It's the sort of thing I long for. If I'd only waited another two weeks before coming down!”

“In that case we couldn't have gotten hold of the money, remember,” smiled Thorpe.

“That's so.” Wallace brightened. “I did count, didn't I?”

“I thought so about ten o'clock this morning,” Thorpe replied.

“Suppose you hadn't stumbled on their camp; suppose Injin Charley hadn't seen them go up-river; suppose you hadn't struck that little mill town JUST at the time you did!” marvelled Wallace.

“That's always the way,” philosophized Thorpe in reply. “It's the old story of 'if the horse-shoe nail hadn't been lost,' you know. But we got there; and that's the important thing.”

“We did!” cried the boy, his enthusiasm rekindling, “and to-night we'll celebrate with the best dinner we ran buy in town!”

Thorpe was tempted, but remembered the thirty dollars in his pocket, and looked doubtful.

Carpenter possessed, as part of his volatile enthusiastic temperament, keen intuitions.

“Don't refuse!” he begged. “I've set my heart on giving my senior partner a dinner. Surely you won't refuse to be my guest here, as I was yours in the woods!”

“Wallace,” said Thorpe, “I'll go you. I'd like to dine with you; but moreover, I'll confess, I should like to eat a good dinner again. It's been more than a year since I've seen a salad, or heard of after-dinner coffee.”

“Come on then,” cried Wallace.

Together they sauntered through the lengthening shadows to a certain small restaurant near Woodward Avenue, then much in vogue among Detroit's epicures. It contained only a half dozen tables, but was spotlessly clean, and its cuisine was unrivalled. A large fireplace near the center of the room robbed it of half its restaurant air; and a thick carpet on the floor took the rest. The walls were decorated in dark colors after the German style. Several easy chairs grouped before the fireplace, and a light wicker table heaped with magazines and papers invited the guests to lounge while their orders were being prepared.

Thorpe was not in the least Sybaritic in his tastes, but he could not stifle a sigh of satisfaction at sinking so naturally into the unobtrusive little comforts which the ornamental life offers to its votaries. They rose up around him and pillowed him, and were grateful to the tired fibers of his being. His remoter past had enjoyed these things as a matter of course. They had framed the background to his daily habit. Now that the background had again slid into place on noiseless grooves, Thorpe for the first time became conscious that his strenuous life had indeed been in the open air, and that the winds of earnest endeavor, while bracing, had chilled. Wallace Carpenter, with the poet's insight and sympathy, saw and understood this feeling.

“I want you to order this dinner,” said he, handing over to Thorpe the card which an impossibly correct waiter presented him. “And I want it a good one. I want you to begin at the beginning and skip nothing. Pretend you are ordering just the dinner you would like to offer your sister,” he suggested on a sudden inspiration. “I assure you I'll try to be just as critical and exigent as she would be.”

Thorpe took up the card dreamily.

“There are no oysters and clams now,” said he, “so we'll pass right on to the soup. It seems to me a desecration to pretend to replace them. We'll have a bisque,” he told the waiter, “rich and creamy. Then planked whitefish, and have them just a light crisp, brown. You can bring some celery, too, if you have it fresh and good. And for entree tell your cook to make some macaroni au gratin, but the inside must be soft and very creamy, and the outside very crisp. I know it's a queer dish for a formal dinner like ours,” he addressed Wallace with a little laugh, “but it's very, very good. We'll have roast beef, rare and juicy;—if you bring it any way but a cooked red, I'll send it back;—and potatoes roasted with the meat and brown gravy. Then the breast of chicken with the salad, in the French fashion. And I'll make the dressing. We'll have an ice and some fruit for dessert. Black coffee.”

“Yes, sir,” replied the waiter, his pencil poised. “And the wines?”

Thorpe ruminated sleepily.

“A rich red Burgundy,” he decided, “for all the dinner. If your cellar contains a very good smooth Beaune, we'll have that.”

“Yes, sir,” answered the waiter, and departed.

Thorpe sat and gazed moodily into the wood fire, Wallace respected his silence. It was yet too early for the fashionable world, so the two friends had the place to themselves. Gradually the twilight fell; strange shadows leaped and died on the wall. A boy dressed all in white turned on the lights. By and by the waiter announced that their repast awaited them.

Thorpe ate, his eyes half closed, in somnolent satisfaction. Occasionally he smiled contentedly across at Wallace, who smiled in response. After the coffee he had the waiter bring cigars. They went back between the tables to a little upholstered smoking room, where they sank into the depths of leather chairs, and blew the gray clouds of smoke towards the ceiling. About nine o'clock Thorpe spoke the first word.

“I'm stupid this evening, I'm afraid,” said he, shaking himself. “Don't think on that account I am not enjoying your dinner. I believe,” he asserted earnestly, “that I never had such an altogether comfortable, happy evening before in my life.”

“I know,” replied Wallace sympathetically.

“It seems just now,” went on Thorpe, sinking more luxuriously into his armchair, “that this alone is living—to exist in an environment exquisitely toned; to eat, to drink, to smoke the best, not like a gormand, but delicately as an artist would. It is the flower of our civilization.”

Wallace remembered the turmoil of the wilderness brook; the little birch knoll, yellow in the evening glow; the mellow voice of the summer night crooning through the pines. But he had the rare tact to say nothing.

“Did it ever occur to you that what you needed, when sort of tired out this way,” he said abruptly after a moment, “is a woman to understand and sympathize? Wouldn't it have made this evening perfect to have seen opposite you a being whom you loved, who understood your moments of weariness, as well as your moments of strength?”

“No,” replied Thorpe, stretching his arms over his head, “a woman would have talked. It takes a friend and a man, to know when to keep silent for three straight hours.”

The waiter brought the bill on a tray, and Carpenter paid it.

“Wallace,” said Thorpe suddenly after a long interval, “we'll borrow enough by mortgaging our land to supply the working expenses. I suppose capital will have to investigate, and that'll take time; but I can begin to pick up a crew and make arrangements for transportation and supplies. You can let me have a thousand dollars on the new Company's note for initial expenses. We'll draw up articles of partnership to-morrow.”