Whereupon, in a very presentable baritone, he burst forth into a song: “Snap your fingers at care! Don’t cross the bridge ’till you’re there--” The girl hesitated, smiled, and finally laughed. She became serious again very soon, however. “That’s fine, but please be careful and try not to alienate them any more, won’t you?” she begged him. Hemingwood assented, and he was aware of a curious feeling of warm satisfaction that she took so much interest in the situation. He himself simply couldn’t be worried about it. He was an unusual type. He could not be said to be brave, because he was really unacquainted with fear. It was a strange paradox, that a man who loved living so much should hold life itself so cheaply as did George Arlington Hemingwood, of the Hemingwoods of Boston. “I’ll bring you your supper,” she offered. “I’ve got to go to town and see if I can rustle some blankets and perhaps a tent from your uncle. He just told me he had some.” The noise of a motor became clear, and George looked up to see the Mumford truck on its way homeward. “I intended to get a ride back to town, but I see I missed out,” Hemingwood observed. Mumford apparently wanted to spend no more time than he needed to in the vicinity of the flyers. “Don’t blame him, please, Lieutenant Hemingwood,” the girl said in a low voice. “You have no idea what a difficult position he is in because of the trouble this morning. The mountain people--” “I understand. There’s no reason why he should risk being mixed up in it,” nodded Hemingwood. “I’ll give you a lift home on Pegasus,” she offered, and so it came about that Hemingwood had a hilarious ride back to East Point on the rear deck of the venerable Pegasus. He got off a little way out of town although the girl did not suggest it. “I can’t call on you tonight, which I intended to ask permission to do,” he told her, smiling up into her own mirthful eyes. “You have no idea what an angel from heaven you’d seem if you passed our palatial pasture home this evening, though.” She hesitated a moment, and then laughed. “I am invited out so little here that I miss no opportunities to take part in the social whirl,” she smiled. “Aunty and I will accept with pleasure, and supply a better picnic supper than you can get out of cans, too!” He got his supplies from Mumford, including the tent, and likewise a letter, addressed in pencil to Lt. Hemingwood in care of Mumford’s store. The script was all but illegible. He opened it in Mumford’s presence, and read: Take my advise and git out of town quick or youll be sorry I know what Im talkin about A friend Hemingwood’s mouth stretched in a wide grin. He thrust it into his pocket and said nothing about it to the patiently curious Mumford. He showed it to Epperson, back at the field, and that wily Scot shook his head. “’Tis no such a bonny country,” he remarked, sucking at his pipe.