“It's a mistake to take anything for granted where a woman is concerned. At the same time I shouldn't be blamed if I take it for granted Chip--” “Suppose you say the rest to me, Dunk,” suggested Chip from the doorway, where he leaned heavily upon his cane. “It begins to look as though I held a hand in this game.” Dunk wheeled furiously upon him. “You're playing a high hand for a forty-dollar man,” he grated, “and you've about reached your limit. The stakes are beyond your reach, my friend.” Chip went white with anger at the thrust, which struck deeper than Dunk knew. But he stood his ground. “Ye--es? Wait till the cards are all turned.” It turned him sick, though, the emptiness of the boast. It was such a pitiful, ghastly bluff--for the cards were all against him, and he knew it. A man in Gilroy, Ohio, would take the trick which decided the game. Hearts were trumps, and Dr. Cecil Granthum had the ace. The little senator got out of his chair and faced Chip tactfully. “Kid Bennett, you rascal, aren't you going to shake hands?” His own was outstretched, waiting. Chip crowded several hot words off his tongue, and gave up his hand for a temporary pump handle. “How do you do, Blake? I didn't think you'd remember me.” “You didn't? How could I help it? I can feel the cold of the water yet, and your rope settling over my shoulders. You never gave me a chance to say 'God bless you' for that; you just coiled up your rope--swearing all the time you did it, because it was wet--and rode off, dripping like a muskrat. What did you do it for?” “I was in a hurry to get back to camp,” grinned Chip, sinking into a chair. “And you weren't a senator then.” “It would have been all the same if I had been, I reckon,” responded the senator, shaking Chip's hand again. “Well, well! So you are the genius--that sounds more likely. No offense, Miss Whitmore. Do you remember that picture you drew with charcoal on a piece of pine board? It stands on the mantel in my library, and I always point it out to my friends as the work of a young man with a future. And you painted 'The Last Stand!' Well, well! I think I'll have to send the price up another notch, just to get even with you for swearing at me when my lungs were so full of water I couldn't swear back!” While he talked he was busy unwrapping the picture which he had brought with him, and he reminded the Little Doctor of a loquacious peddler opening his pack. He was much more genial and unpretentious since Chip entered the room, and she wondered why. She wanted to ask about that reference to the water, but he stood the painting against the wall, just then, and she forgot everything but that. Chip's eyes clung to the scene greedily. After all, it was his--and he knew in his heart that it was good. After a minute he limped into his room and brought “The Spoils of Victory,” and stood it beside “The Last Stand.”