“Oh, mother's all right,” said Alan, “and so is father, but they must not chip in with that sort of talk before Wilson.” “Oh no, you mustn't,” said Miller. “In fact, I think you'd better let me and Alan do the talking. You see, if you sit perfectly quiet he 'll think you are reluctant about giving such big security for such a small amount of money, and he will trade faster.” “Oh, I'm perfectly willin' to keep quiet,” agreed the old man, who now seemed better satisfied. Pole Baker left the office with long, swinging strides. There was an entrance to the Johnston House through a long corridor opening on the street, and into this Pole slouched. The hotel office was empty save for the clerk who stood behind the counter, looking over the letters in the pigeon-holed key-rack on the wall. There was a big gong overhead which was rung by pulling a cord. It was used for announcing meals and calling the porter. A big china bowl on the counter was filled with wooden tooth-picks, and there was a show-case containing cigars. Pole glanced about cautiously without being noticed by the clerk, and then withdrew into the corridor, where he stood for several minutes, listening. Presently the dining-room door opened and Wilson strolled out and walked up to the counter. “What sort of cigars have you got?” he said to the clerk. “Nothing better than ten, three for a quarter,” was the respectful reply, as the clerk recognized the man who had asked for the best room in the house. Wilson thrust his fingers into his vest-pocket and drew out a cigar. “I guess I can make what I have last me,” he said, transferring his glance to Pole Baker, who had shambled across the room and leaned heavily over the open register. “Want to buy any chickins--fine fryin' size?” he asked the clerk. “Well, we are in the market,” was the answer. “Where are they?” “I didn't fetch 'em in to-day,” said Pole, dryly. “I never do till I know what they are a-bringin'. You'd better make a bid on a dozen of 'em anyway. They are the finest ever raised on Upper Holly Creek, jest this side o' whar old man Bishop's lumber paradise begins.” Pole was looking out of the corner of his eye at the stranger, and saw his hand, which was in the act of striking a match, suddenly stay itself. “We don't bid on produce till we see it,” said the clerk. “Well, I reckon no harm was done by my axin',” said Pole, who felt the eyes of the stranger on him. “Do you live near here?” asked Wilson, with a smile half of apology at addressing a stranger, even of Pole's humble stamp. “No.” Pole laughed and waved his hand towards the mountains in the west, which were plainly discernible in the clear morning light. “No, I'm a mountain shanghai. I reckon it's fifteen mile on a bee-line to my shack.” “Didn't you say you lived near old Mr. Bishop's place?” asked Wilson, moving towards the open door which led to the veranda.