"How stupid of me!" Augusta apologized from the step of the wagon. "But, out gypsying like this, it's so easy to get careless in one's manners. We are the Wardwells. My husband is a writer," she catalogued carefully. "And I am his wife. And our horse Donahue once lived under a lake in Ireland." The big man turned for a look at Donahue. "Them horses was white," he argued, "I know all about them. He's a rusty red." "Of course," said Augusta cheerfully as she dived into her stores and handed forth potatoes and bacon, "that's rust, from the dampness." The big man exploded into a roaring laugh. "God bless the handy liar that made that up for you! I don't think you did it yourself." "No," Augusta admitted, "it's my husband. You see, inventing is his business. I only quote. And Donahue, who is truly wise, he only listens." Jimmie was dutifully unhitching Donahue. "Donahue," he grumbled as he tugged at the girth buckle, "_what_ do you know about that? "Now, not as between master and servant but as horse to man, give me your plain opinion. Are women born into the world full armed with all the weapons of diplomacy, tact and happy deceit? And if they are not so born, Donahue, I put it to you, who teaches them? "Augusta is fully convinced that the man is a desperate criminal. And she waves the whole matter aside, as though he had merely apologized for being without a dress suit, and makes him the long lost uncle. "I am a stupid man and you are not a particularly brilliant horse. We are stumped, and we know it. "Come and have a drink." He led the way down to where there was a little shingle of pebbles running from the grass bank out into the lake and Donahue walked into the water so as to cover all four feet, for he was old and road wise and he knew the comfort of a cool foot bath after a long blistering day. "Good idea," Jimmie commented, "cool your feet and clear your mind. We need clear minds around here. Come on now, this is the only lake in the neighborhood. Don't try to drink it all. You'll spoil your appetite and ruin your digestion which is already impaired by sugar bags and other surreptitious gobblings. "About our Mr. Smith, now," he inquired as he dragged Donahue away from the water, "what do you think? What particular branch of high crime does he favor. He is a specialist, of course. He is far too clever a man to scatter himself on general practitioning in this age of specialists. What do you suggest? "He is a large round man with a kind eye. He could sell mining stocks. But, somehow, I rather feel that he'd be above preying on widows and school teachers and innocent clergymen. I think he'd prefer some excitement in his. "He might be a head waiter, of course. But no law has yet been invented to make those gentlemen flee to the woods. "I'll have to give it up, if you have nothing to suggest," he concluded lamely. When he had filled Donahue's measure of oats he left him feeding at the wagon and came to the fire.