It was, however, upon the teacher’s desk--a whittled-up, hand-made affair which stood upon a slightly-raised platform--that the boys had outdone themselves in the matter of decoration. Garlanded both on top and around the sides with pine boughs and upon the centre of which stood a tall glass filled with red and white berries, it looked not unlike a sacrificial altar which, in a way, it certainly was. A box that was intended for a seat for the teacher was also decorated with pine branches; while several cheap, print flags adorned the primitive iron holder of the large lamp suspended from the ceiling in the centre of the room. Altogether it was a most festive-looking Academy that was destined to meet the teacher’s eye on this particular morning. For some time Nick had been standing near the window gazing in the direction of the Girl’s cabin. Turning, suddenly, to Rance, the only other occupant of the room, he remarked somewhat sadly: “I’d be willin’ to lose the profits of the bar if we could git back to a week ago--before Johnson walked into this room.” At the mention of the road agent’s name Rance’s eyes dropped to the floor. It required no flash of inspiration to tell him that things would never be what they had been. “Johnson,” he muttered, his face ashen white and a sound in his throat that was something like a groan. “A week--a week in her cabin--nursed and kissed....” he finished shortly. Nick had been helping himself to a drink; he wheeled swiftly round, confronting him. “Oh, say, Rance, she--” Rance took the words out of his mouth. “Never kissed him! You bet she kissed him! It was all I could do to keep from telling the whole camp he was up there.” His eyes blazed and his hands tightened convulsively. “But you didn’t....” Nick broke in on him quickly. “If I hadn’t been let into the game by the Girl I’d a thought you were a level Sheriff lookin’ for him. Rance, you’re my ideal of a perfect gent.” Rance braced up in his chair. “What did she see in that Sacramento shrimp, will you tell me?” presently he questioned, contempt showing on every line of his face. The little barkeeper did not answer at once, but filled a glass with whisky which he handed to him. “Well, you see, I figger it out this way, boss,” at last he answered, meeting him face to face frankly, earnestly, his foot the while resting on the other’s chair. “Love’s like a drink that gits a hold on you an’ you can’t quit. It’s a turn of the head or a touch of the hands, or it’s a half sort of smile, an’ you’re doped, doped, doped with a feelin’ like strong liquor runnin’ through your veins, an’ there ain’t nothin’ on earth can break it up once you’ve got the habit. That’s love.” Touched by the little barkeeper’s droll philosophy, the Sheriff dropped his head on his breast, while the hand which held the glass unconsciously fell to his side.