wheewed and crackled, spitting suddenly when a lump of snow in a broken fork caught the heat. Abraham lay still, breathing thickly. Kenney, with his heavily-stockinged feet thrust out to the fire, wrote laboriously and lengthily, and Dick watched the flames and remembered this game which he was playing with Ducane as goal. He spoke at last abruptly.
"Give me that paper, Kennedy. I'll put it in my pocketbook."
"I'm not through yet"
"Holy smoke! What are you writing? A book? How much have you got?"
"Only four pages and a bit."
"It'll go into four lines. Tear that stuff out and chuck it on the fire. Now, write as I tell you. 'Sir,—I have the honour to report that the maniac Abraham—surname unknown—who headed the company of fanatics calling themselves a lost tribe of Israel, was lately captured by Constable Kennedy and myself at their settlement in the Clear Hills. Constable Kennedy, who has recently joined, behaved with commendable coolness under rather trying circumstances. I have the honour to be, Sir, your obedient servant’"
"Lord!" said Kennedy sharply. "You don't want to rub it in like that."
"You'll make a man all right when you grow up," said Dick. "And then you will understand that a man only talks about the things he doesn't do. What were you going to make out of this little game home in Grey Wolf?"
Under the quizzical eyes Kennedy burned with the red of shame.
"All right," said Dick, and laughed. "But I guess I wouldn't. We generally don't, you know."
But this moral lesson did not prevent him from leaving Kennedy at the barracks when Abraham was disposed of, and straightway seeking at Grange's that brandy for which his soul craved. And so it was that Jennifer, coming later into the little back-room at Grange's, whither Dick had retired with his glass, found him asleep there. He lay back in the big chair, with one leg outstretched to the heat
