CHAPTER XII Jim found Zaanan Frame at his desk, Tiffany’s _Justices’ Guide_ open before him as it always was in his moments of leisure. Zaanan nodded. “Set,” he said. “Judge,” said Jim, “I’ve been invited to help beat you at the next election.” “Um!” “They tell me a corporation hasn’t a chance with you.” “Some hain’t,” said Zaanan, briefly. “And that a laboring-man gets all the best of it.” “An even chance is the best of it for a poor feller,” said Zaanan. “Calc’late you was fetchin’ me news?” The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Moran’s a convincin’ talker,” he observed, after a brief pause. Jim made no reply. “Thinkin’ of throwin’ in with him?” Zaanan asked. Jim started to speak, but stopped, startled. It seemed to him for an instant that Marie Ducharme sat before him. He could see her move with the wonderful grace that was hers; he could see the sure, graceful lines of her figure; he could see her face, mobile, intelligent, with possibilities that would have made it interesting, even compelling, but for the expression of sullen discontent that masked it. So real, so material did she seem, that it seemed to Jim he could stretch out his hand and touch her. Then she was gone. Jim’s teeth clicked together, and his good, square-cornered jaw set. “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do,” he said, with that sudden resolution which seemed to have become a part of him. “I’m going to chase Michael Moran out of Diversity County.” “Um! Hain’t you perty busy savin’ your own goods from the fire?” “I’ll keep mine and add something of his,” Jim said, grimly. “Wa-al, sich things has been done. Ever hear tell of Watt Peters and his bear? Watt he was campin’ with a crowd back in the timber, huntin’ bear. One day he was cruisin’ round and come on to a old he-bear consid’rable more sudden than he calc’lated on. Watt he never got famous for boldness, so this time he clean forgot he was huntin’ bear and turned and run for all was in him. Seems like he irritated that bear somehow, for he turned to and chased Watt ’most to camp. Watt he tripped over a root and like to busted his neck. Old bear he kept a-comin’. Wasn’t anything for it but to shoot, so Watt he up and shot. Dummed if he didn’t kill that there bear deader ’n a door-nail. Fellers in camp came a-runnin’ out. “‘’Most catched you, didn’t he?’ says a feller. “‘Catched me!’ says Watt. ‘What you mean, catched me?’ “‘He was a-chasin’ you, wasn’t he?’ “Watt he looked scornful-like and answered right up: “‘Think I want to lug a bear two mile into camp?’ says he. ‘No, sir, I lured this here bear in so’s I could kill him handy to where I wanted him. I jest figgered to make him carry himself into camp,’ says he. Wa-al, young feller, things does happen that way sometimes, but it looks to me right now like the bear was chasin’ you.”