“Who's running the show, Polycarp?” Kent asked, accepting the glass of soda because he disliked to offend. “Funny I didn't hear about it.” Polycarp twisted his slit of a mouth knowingly, and closed one slit of an eye to assist the facial elucidation. “Ain't funny--not when I tell you Fred De Garmo's handing out the _in_vites, and he sure aims to have plenty of excitement--_he-he!_ Betcher Manley won't be able to set on the wagon seat an' hold the lines t'-morrow--not if he comes out when he's called and does the thing proper--_he-he!_ An' if he don't show up, they aim to jest about pull the old shebang down over his ears. Hope'll think it's the day of judgment, sure--_he-he!_ Reckon I might's well git in on the fun--they won't be no sleepin' within ten mile of the place, nohow, and a feller always sees the joke better when he's lendin' a hand. Too bad you an' Fred's on the outs, Kenneth.” “Oh, I don't know--it suits me fine,” Kent declared easily, setting down his glass with a sigh of relief; he hated “pop.” “What's it all about, anyway?” quizzed Polycarp, hungering for the details which had thus far been denied him. “De Garmo sees red whenever anybody mentions your name, Kenneth--but I never did hear no particulars.” “No?” Kent was turning toward the door. “Well, you see, Fred claims he can holler louder than I can, and I say he can't.” He opened the door and calmly departed, leaving Polycarp looking exceedingly foolish and a bit angry. Straight to the hotel, without any pretense at disguising his destination, marched Kent. He went into the office--which was really a saloon--invited Hawley to drink with him, and then wondered audibly if he could beg some pie from Mrs. Hawley. “Supper'll be ready in a few minutes,” Hawley informed him, glancing up at the round, dust-covered clock screwed to the wall. “I don't want supper--I want pie,” Kent retorted, and opened a door which led into the hallway. He went down the narrow passage to another door, opened it without ceremony, and was assailed by the odor of many things--the odor which spoke plainly of supper, or some other assortment of food. No one was in sight, so he entered the dining room boldly, stepped to another door, tapped very lightly upon it, and went in. By this somewhat roundabout method he invaded the parlor. Manley Fleetwood was lying upon an extremely uncomfortable couch, of the kind which is called a sofa. He had a lace-edged handkerchief folded upon his brow, and upon his face was an expression of conscious unworthiness which struck Kent as being extremely humorous. He grinned understandingly and Manley flushed--also understandingly. Valeria hastily released Manley's hand and looked very prim and a bit haughty, as she regarded the intruder from the red plush chair, pulled close to the couch. “Mr. Fleetwood's head is very bad yet,” she informed Kent coldly. “I really do not think he ought to see--anybody.”