as he stood at the window in the 

 office looking disconsolately at the 

 storm. The street was running rivers 

 of mud lashed by the wind, the down- 

 pour swept past in undulating waves 

 of sleety wetness. 



"Of course, we must get to the 

 Canon to-night," I made answer. 



"There are seventy miles of it. 

 Can you do it?" 



He needed no assurance. 



"I will skirmish for a private 

 conveyance. Can you be ready in 

 an hour if my gold proves convinc- 

 ing?' 1 



"Easily. Do you suppose we can 

 borrow an umbrella? I saw a 'Dry 

 Goods Emporium' down the street 

 as we came up from the station and 

 hope it will yield us some sweaters 

 and warm things. ' ' I felt as bloodless 

 as a sheet of paper. 



An hour later we dashed out of 

 town behind four half -broken mus- 

 tangs whose principal endeavour 

 seemed to be to stay off the ground 

 as much as possible. The two-seated 

 mountain carry-all swung from side 

 to side, sending the mud in showers 

 around it and upon the tarpaulin 



