Pippin Larue chanted tipsily, as he strummed softly the strings of a muffled banjo. And Raoul Bethune, with the flush of liquor upon his pale cheeks, joined in the laugh that followed, and replenished his glass from the black bottle he had contrived to smuggle from the hospital stores when he had been returned to his room in the dormitory. And "Monk" Bethune he was solemnly rechristened by the half-dozen admiring satellites who had foregathered to celebrate his recovery from an illness. All this was long ago. Monk Bethune's dormitory life had terminated abruptly--for the good of the school, but the name had fastened itself upon him after the manner of names that fit. It followed him to far places, and certain red-coated policemen, who knew and respected his father, the Hudson Bay Company's old factor on Lake o' God's Wrath, hated him for what he had become. They knew him for an inveterate gambler who spent money freely and boasted openly of his winnings. He was soft of voice and mild of manner and aside from his passion for gambling, his conduct so far as was known was irreproachable. But, there were wise and knowing ones among the officers of the law, who deemed it worth their while to make careful and unobtrusive comparison between the man's winnings and his expenditures. These were the men who knew that certain Indians were being systematically supplied with whisky, and that there were certain horses in Canada whose brands, upon close inspection, showed signs of having been skillfully "doctored," and which bore unmistakable evidence of having come from the ranges to the southward of the international boundary. But, try as they might, no slightest circumstance of evidence could they unearth against Bethune, who was wont to disappear from his usual haunts for days and weeks at a time, to reappear smiling and debonaire, as unexpectedly as he had gone. Knowing that the men of the Mounted suspected him, he laughed at them openly. Once, upon a street in Regina, Corporal Downey lost his temper. "You'll make a mistake sometime, Monk, and then it will be our turn to laugh." "Oh-ho! So until I make a mistake, I am safe, eh? That is good news, Downey--good news! Skill and luck--luck and skill--the tools of the gamblers' trade! But, granted that sometime I shall make a mistake--shall lose for the moment, my skill; I shall still have my luck--and your mistakes. You are a good boy, Downey, but you'll be a glum one if you wait to laugh at my mistakes. If I were a chicken thief instead of a--gambler, I should fear you greatly." Downey recounted this jibe in the barracks, and the officers redoubled their vigilance, but the Indians still got their whisky, and new horses appeared from the southward.