"I don't see how you ever figured it out!" cried Johnny for the twelfth time. "I knew it must have hit his head unless it just grazed his cap," said Bobby, "and when I saw that scar----" "Gee, it was great!" gloated Johnny, "just like a book! It'll be in all the papers to-morrow. You saved Mr. Kincaid's life, didn't you?" "I suppose I did," said Bobby complacently. At this moment the open hot-air register began to speak, carrying up the voices from the rooms below. As the subject under discussion was the closest to the boys' hearts for the moment, they drew near to listen. "It's Mr. Kincaid himself!" breathed Bobby. "I've been trying to catch you all the way up the street," Mr. Kincaid was saying, "but you walk like a steam engine." "I felt good," explained Mr. Orde. "I knew you were innocent, of course; but it looked dark." "Yes, it looked dark," admitted Mr. Kincaid. "Where's that youngster of yours? He saved the day." "I was just going to look for him. There're a few points I'd like to clear up. If he saw all that, why didn't he say something before?" "Don't know. But he certainly spoke to the point when he did get going. Look here, Orde, I'm proud of that kid. I want you to let me do something; he's old enough now to have a sure enough gun, and I want you to let me give it to him. Stafford has a little shotgun--16 gauge--ever see one?" "Nothing smaller than a 12" confessed Orde. "Well, I told him to keep it for me. I'd like to give it to Bobby. He's learned fast, and he's paid attention to what he learned. I don't believe in guns for small boys, but Bobby is careful; he doesn't make any breaks." Johnny reached over to clasp Bobby excitedly. "Now we can get partridges!" he squealed under his breath. But Bobby was unexpectedly cold to this enthusiasm. He reached over to close the register. At once the voices were shut off. Then for some time he sat cross-legged staring straight in front of him. To Johnny's remarks he replied irritably until that youngster flounced himself into a corner with a book, ostentatiously indifferent. Bobby was seeing things. As was his habit, he was visualizing a scene that had passed, recalling each little detail of what had at the time apparently passed lightly over his consciousness. He saw again plainly the yellow sand-hills under his feet, and the village lying below, its roofs half hidden in the lilac and mauve of bared branches, its columns of smoke rising straight up in the frosty air. He saw the sturdy round-shouldered form in the old shooting coat, the lined brown lean face, the white moustache and the eyebrows, the kindly twinkling eyes squinted against the western light. He heard again Mr. Kincaid's deep slow voice: