"In Regina they say it is 'Get your woman'," interrupted Marjorie, who had a way of bursting in at inopportune moments. "I think, brother mine, you'd better keep an eye cocked." "For the Englishman on Two? That will be Jack's look-out," Jean retorted. "Well, here's a welcome to a neighbour--any neighbour. I must pick an acquaintance with Spoof." The opportunity was not long delayed. Two mornings later we saw the white gleam of a tent on section Two. We quit work early that afternoon, hitched the oxen to the wagon, and went down _en masse_ to call on Spoof. He saw us when we were yet afar off, and, when it was evident we were headed for his tent, he came striding out to meet us. He was tall and slim and sunburned; he wore leggings and corduroy trousers and a belt, and he took off his hat when he saw the girls. "My first callers," he said, in his clear, English voice. "This is jolly decent of you. Won't you get down, ladies, and visit my farm--this is it, all around here--while we unhitch the bullocks and turn them to grass? I suspect you are my neighbours from Fourteen?" "Fourteen and Twenty-two," said I, acting as spokesman, and introducing our little party. "We have heard of you, but only as Spoof." "Spoof is good enough. In fact, I think it is rather a ripping name, don't you? And I know enough already about the West to know that a catchy nick-name, once applied, sticks. So Spoof I am, to everybody, except the dear folks at home, who, of course, could never understand. When I wrote the Governor and said the people here called me Spoof he answered, 'Such insolence! I'd have the law on them! Remember you are still an Englishman!' Poor old Governor!" "Here are some letters, Mr. Spoof," said Jean, extending the little bundle. "Mr. Brook, the policeman, left them as he rode by a few days ago." "Good old post office!" Spoof exclaimed. "Wonderful how they chase a beggar down, isn't it? They even know me by my Canadian name. Good old P.O." Spoof made us come into his tent. The furnishings were not elaborate, but they had a little air of something that seemed to be missing in ours. There was a tin trunk, which had been sat on until it had a great depression in the top, and a leather trunk, generously plastered with labels. There was a great box, which he used as a table, and dishes of inappropriately delicate china. There was a folding camp cot with steamer rugs. Quite a handsome shaving set was strapped to a wall of the tent, and a great cartridge belt with a prodigious revolver hung from a tent pole, while a rifle leaned against it. Spoof evidently meant to sell his life dearly, if there should be any demand for it. Three or four English magazines lay about, and a tobacco jar with pipes stood in the centre of the table. But what caught Jean's eyes were the pictures on the walls. Spoof's tent was up less than a day, and there were pictures on the walls!