John Ryder drew out a cigar, bit off the end savagely and lit it in direct contradiction to hotel rules, and puffed away like a donkey engine while he paced the carpeted corridor. He was no longer the man with the welfare of his fellow guests at heart--particularly of the women and children in Pinewood Inn. He was tired, he was sleepy, and he had had enough excitement to last him for some time to come. The procession of incidents which had enlivened his existence since the _Minnequago_ had docked were flung upon the screen of his memory again, and he reviewed them like a spectator at a moving picture show. He remembered in what a nervous state he awaited the steamship's docking, expecting some word from the beautiful girl whom he had learned to love during the passage across the Atlantic. Having not seen her to speak to for some hours, he had half feared to have her accept his proposal, now that he had made it. But the instant he saw her on the wharf awaiting his coming, he had flung all such hesitation and uncertainty to the winds. She seemed in her appearance all that was good and beautiful. Then followed in swift succession the obtaining of the license, his own jumbled business at his offices, the drive to the minister's, the marriage ceremony, their hurried departure by train, their arrival at the Pinewood Inn in safety despite the accident at the bridge, their cozy little dinner, and then---- In more somber colors followed the chain of circumstances which had finally culminated in his present plight. Was ever a bridegroom up against such confounded luck? Some honeymoon, indeed! He tried to laugh; but his position was too serious, and his laugh was choked off by the time it was started. He swore softly again and paced on down the hallway. Coming to the door of the parlor, he looked in. Old Cudger was asleep in the invalid's chair with a rug thrown over him. Candles, in saucers for sconces, burned before the picture, all other lights in the room being extinguished. Marching up and down the rug like a sentinel with his master's gold-headed cane upon his shoulder, was James, the colored factotum of the owner of Van Scamp's "Cheesemonger." "It does look as though the hotel were in a state of siege," muttered Ryder. "It's an experience that none of us will forget for many a long day. Heigh ho! I wish I'd never come into the ranch," and he stretched his arms above his head and yawned. "This isn't my idea of a nice, quiet honeymoon." At this end of the parlor the shadows were heavy. But Ryder saw the outlines of several comfortable looking chairs. Plowing up and down the corridor waiting for Ruth to call him back, began to pall upon his mind. He ventured into the big room.