Outside the veranda a smudge fire in a bucket was doing battle with attacking mosquitoes, while its thin spiral of smoke served as a screen upon the still air to shut out the view of the disheveled township of Orrville. Dug McFarlane, opulent, of middle life and massive proportions, was in strong contrast to his guest. The American-Scot was something of a product of the soil. He was of the type which forces its way up from the smallest of small beginnings, a type which decides early upon a career in life, and which deviates not one step from the set course. He was a man of one idea--cattle. He knew nothing beyond--cattle. Cattle was the sum and substance of his celibate life. He was an old type of ranchman whose waking hours were devoted to a physical labor which left no room for anything else. But Jeff knew that for all his roughness of manner and speech, a roughness which left his own partner, Bud, a man of education and refinement beside him, he counted his wealth, as he, Jeff, could only hope to count his in the distant years to come. Jeff was his guest for the night, and the dispute upon which he was to arbitrate was to be settled upon the arrival of the man Peters. And while they waited they talked of the thing which was their mutual interest. The land and its produce, whether animal or vegetable, was their beginning and end. They discussed every prospect from the overwhelming competition of the Argentine, to the rapid transformation of grazing pastures into golden wheat fields. Their interest seemed endless, and it seemed only to require the non-appearance of Peters for their talk to continue until sleep overtook them. But the break came in the flow of their "shop" at the mention of the name of Peters. Jeff was curious to hear about him. "Who is this Peters, anyway?" he demanded. "He's not down in the stock register, and nobody seems to have found him except you." Dug's reply came with a great laugh. His very bright gray eyes were full of a good humor beneath his pronounced black brows. "Peters? Why, I guess Peters 'ud make a funeral procession laff. You've never seen him? You don't know him? No. Sure you wouldn't. Nor you wouldn't find him registered. Y'see, they don't register mixed farm stock. Anyways, he got me laffin' all the time. But he's bright--oh, yep, he's bright, sure. He's a little feller. To git him right you need to think of a buck louse with a think-box developed abnormal. He's a great amusin' little cuss when you see him on his patch of land. You'd think he was runnin' a cirkis he's so busy fixin' things wrong. I'd like him fine if it wa'an't fer his habits. I can't stand the feller who eats the top of his fingers raw, an' sings hymns o' Sunday in a voice that never oughter been handed out to anything livin' that hadn't the sense to choke itself at birth." "Is that the reason of the dispute?" Jeff asked with smile. Dug grinned and shook his head.