"I can't make no money on the level after what Harrod done to me. And I gotta fix up Eve. What the hell do you mean by asking me would it pay me to travel straight I dunno." "I was only thinking of Eve. A lady isn't supposed to have a crook for a father." Clinch's grey eyes blazed for a moment, then their menacing glare dulled, died out into wintry fixity. "I wan't born a crook," he said. "I ain't got no choice. And don't worry, young fella; they ain't a-going to get me." "You can't go on beating the game forever, Clinch." "I'm beating it----" he hesitated--"and it won't be so long, neither, before I turn over enough to let Eve live in the city like any lady, with her autymobile and her own butler and all her swell friends, in a big house like she is educated for----" He broke off abruptly as a procession approached from the lake, escorting the battered gentry who now were able to wabble about a little. One of them, a fox-faced trap thief named Earl Leverett, slunk hastily by as though expecting another kick from Clinch. "G'wan inside, Earl, and act up right," said Clinch pleasantly. "You oughter have more sense than to start a fight in my place--you and Sid Hone and Harvey Chase. G'wan in and behave." He and Smith followed the procession of damaged ones into the house. The big unpainted room where a bar had once been was blue with cheap cigar smoke; the air reeked with the stench of beer and spirits. A score or more shambling forest louts in their dingy Saturday finery were gathered there playing cards, shooting craps, lolling around tables and tilting slopping glasses at one another. Heavy pleasantries were exchanged with the victims of Clinch's ponderous fists as they re-entered the room from which they had been borne so recently, feet first. "Now, boys," said Clinch kindly, "act up like swell gents and behave friendly. And if any ladies come in for the chicken supper, why, gol dang it, we'll have a dance!" III Toward sundown the first woodland nymph appeared--a half-shy, half-bold, willowy thing in the rosy light of the clearing. Hal Smith, washing glasses and dishes on the back porch for Eve Strayer to dry, asked who the rustic beauty might be. "Harvey Chase's sister," said Eve. "She shouldn't come here, but I can't keep her away and her brother doesn't care. She's only a child, too." "Is there any harm in a chicken supper and a dance?" Eve looked gravely at young Smith without replying. Other girlish shapes loomed in the evening light. Some were met by gallants, some arrived at the veranda unescorted. "Where do they all come from? Do they live in trees like dryads?" asked Smith. "There are always squatters in the woods," she replied indifferently. "Some of these girls come from Ghost Lake, I suppose." "Yes; waitresses at the Inn." "What music is there?" "Jim Hastings plays a fiddle. I play the melodeon if they need me." "What do you do when there's a fight?" he asked, with a side glance at her pure profile.