go for a fresh hold for his teeth. Then the struggle ceased as suddenly as it began, with the dog uppermost.
"Over on the left a team of six huskies swung around a hill and stopped. A shot rang out, and Jamie, the Scotch collie, let go his hold and toppled over.
"They carried him into Dawson and found, when they undressed him, that he had forty pounds of gold—broad, flat flakes of it—around his waist. He had forgotten it was there. In two weeks he was on his feet again, thanks to his abnormal constitution and the influence of the small fortune he had brought in."
A knock sounded on the door and a boy pushed his head in.
"There's a man downstairs," he said, looking at me, "that wants to see you. He says to tell you he's in a hurry."
I got up and swung the door open. "And ever since then," I questioned, "Paul has been afraid of a Scotch collie?" I stepped through the door, the doorknob in my hand, waiting for his answer before I went downstairs.
"Close the door!"
I whirled around. It was the same fear-stricken voice I had heard in the elevator in the afternoon. My friend the detective had got upon his feet and was standing behind the table, his face white and drawn, his eyes wide with genuine fear!
"Shut the door!" he roared again, gripping the table to steady his shrinking body. I obeyed the wild command and found myself in the hall, face to face with the girl and the dog. She was just coming out of the room opposite, and the dog had been waiting outside. It had been the soft patter of his feet we had heard in the hall. The dog, I noticed, was a Scotch collie.
So, after all, there was a reason for the Gibson house detective's absurdly high collar.
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HOUSES
MEN build them houses upon shore and height,
And set a woman in the altar place,
And get them children of their sturdy race,
And trim their laws and mark the birds in flight,
And glory in the nation's mounting might,
Being very sure in all things bad to trace
The growth of good—till o'er each foolish face
Suddenly tramp the armies of the night.
Out with the stars and fireflies in the damp
I watch the yellow flaring of their lamp
Above the hearth—exulting still to be,
My mate beside, so wild and homeless there,
And as the world itself estranged and free.
With terror and with laughter and despair.
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MORALS—A matter of climate.
