“Their names were Kerr and McKensie. One day Kerr upset his canoe in some rapids and lost everything he had but his clothes and his sheath-knife. But at dark he happened on McKensie’s camp, and stayed the night with him. McKensie had a good outfit--canoe, rifle, grub, traps, and a big bundle of furs. He had also a deserved reputation for shrewdness and thrift. And in the night they got to trading. “When morning came McKensie had the sheath-knife and Kerr had everything else. McKensie would never explain what happened. When asked about it he looked a little dazed. He said, with marked emphasis: “‘Yon is a verra intelligent pairson!’ The moral is, You’ve got to be careful with a Scotchman.” “You get out!” said George indignantly. “Go gather the Judge. I’ll ’tend to Mac.” “All right,” said Jeff. “We’ll go. But don’t say I didn’t warn you.” * * * * * Judge Thorpe was particularly well pleased with himself. After a prosperous and profitable day and a pleasant evening at his club, he bethought himself of his old relentless enemy, obesity, and made his way to the Turkish baths. He had been boiled, baked and basted, and now lay swathed in linen on a marble slab, blissfully drowsy, waiting to be curried. He was more than half asleep when the operator came. When the currying process began, however, the Judge noticed that the hostler seemed anything but an expert. Why had they not sent Gibbons as usual? He opened his eyes, intending remonstrance, but closed them immediately; they were playing tricks on him. A curious thing! The white-tunicked attendant, seen through the curling spirals of steam, looked startlingly like his prisoner in Juarez. The Judge’s heart skipped a beat or two and then started with a fearful thumping. The rubber plied his mitten briskly; the Judge opened his eyes again. Of course the prisoner was safe; the illusion was doubtless the effect of the perspiration on his eyelashes. The billowy vapor parted, the industrious attendant bent impersonally over him with a serene, benevolent look--Good Heavens! The Judge’s heart died horribly within him, his tongue was dry, his bones turned to water and his flesh to a quivering jelly. He cast a beseeching look to the open door. Beyond it, looking idly in, were three men in street clothes. They entered, ranging themselves silently against the wall. They looked amused. Thorpe’s lips moved, but no words came. Jeff Bransford rubbed away assiduously; there was a quizzical glint in his pleasant brown eyes. “My wife, Judge,” he said cheerfully, jerking his head to introduce Beebe, “and my two boys, Wes’ and Leo. Fine, well-grown boys, aren’t they?” He prodded the Judge’s ribs with a jocular thumb. “Say, Judge--how about that presentiment now?” * * * * *