“Yes, yes,” Mary hastily agreed, hoping against hope that she wasn’t going to be more explicit. “And they are so cute about it, too; it’s next to impossible to catch ’em. You ask a man if he b’iles his coffee loose or tight, and he’ll declare he b’iles it loose, knowing well how suspicious and prone to investigate is the female mind. But you watch your chance and take a look in the coffee-pot, and maybe you’ll find—” “Yes, yes, I’ve heard—” “I’ve seen—” “Let’s hurry,” implored Mary. “Have you made your coffee yet?” inquired the fat lady. “Yes, marm,” promptly responded Johnnie. “I hope you b’iled it in a bag—it clears it beautiful, a bag does.” Johnnie shifted uneasily. “No, marm, I b’iles it loose. You see, bags ain’t always handy.” The fat lady plied her eye as a weapon. No Dax could stand up before an accusing feminine eye. He quailed, made a grab for the coffee-pot, and rushed with it out into the night. “What did I tell you?” she asked, with an air of triumph. Johnnie returned with the empty coffee-pot. “To tell the truth, marm, I made a mistake. I ’ain’t made the coffee. I plumb forgot it. P’raps you could be prevailed on to assist this yere outfit to coffee while I organizes a few sody-biscuits.” After supper, when the fat lady was so busy talking “goo-goo” language to the baby as to be oblivious of everything else, Mary Carmichael took the opportunity to ask Johnnie if he knew anything about Lost Trail. The name of her destination had come to sound unpleasantly ominous in the ears of the tired young traveller, and she feared that her inquiry did not sound as casual as she tried to have it. Nor was Johnnie’s candid reply reassuring. “It’s a pizen-mean country, from all I ever heard tell. The citizens tharof consists mainly of coyotes and mountain-lions, with a few rattlers thrown in just to make things neighborly. This yere place”—waving his hand towards the arid wastes which night was making more desolate—“is a summer resort, with modern improvements, compared to it.” Mary screwed her courage to a still more desperate point, and inquired if Mr. Dax knew a family named Yellett living in Lost Trail. “Never heard of no family living there, excepting the bluff at family life maintained by the wild beasts before referred to. See here, miss, I ain’t makin’ no play to inquire into your affairs, but you ain’t thinkin’ o’ visitin’ Lost Trail, be you?” “Perhaps,” said Mary, faintly; and then she, too, talked “goo-goo” to the baby. VIII. The Rodneys At Home