“No, I’ve other things to do,” Barreau refused bluntly. “Bestir your fat carcass, and set him to work. The night air won’t hurt you. We have no time to waste. For all I know a troop of Police may be on us before we can get started again.” Montell grunted some unintelligible protest, but nevertheless, heaved his flesh-burdened body up from the cot. He gathered about him a much-worn dressing gown, and, thrusting his feet into a pair of slippers, left the tent. “Now, let us see about clothes,” Barreau said to me, and I followed him to the wagon-end. He climbed up on the hind wheel. After a second or two of fumbling he upended a flat steamer trunk. I held it while he leaped to the ground, and between us we carried it into the tent. “The Police have my key—much good may it do them,” he remarked, and pried open the lid with a hatchet that lay near by. He threw a few articles carelessly aside. “Peel off those roustabout garments,” he said to me. “Here is something better. Lucky we’re about of a size.” He gave me a blue flannel shirt to begin with, and when I had discarded the soiled rags I wore and put on the clean one, he held out to me a coat and trousers of some dark cloth, a pair of riding boots similar to those on his own feet, and clean socks. Other clothing he hauled from the trunk and laid in a pile by itself. Lastly he brought forth a new felt hat. “Does this fit you?” He stood up and set it on my head. “Fine. No, I’ll get a hat from Steve before we start,” he silenced my protest. We had both ridden bareheaded. Montell returned while I was getting into the welcome change of apparel. “Steve’s gettin’ you what you need, George,” he informed. “There’s a new tarpaulin by the bed you can use for your pack. Steve’ll get you blankets. Go softly. I’m none too sure of all these bull-whackers I got.” Barreau went on spreading his clothes in a flat heap as if he had not heard. Presently he closed the trunk. Getting to his feet he glanced about. “Oh, yes,” he said curtly, as if he had but recollected something. “I want some of that port you’ve been guzzling. Dig it up.” “Certainly, George, certainly,” Montell’s face broadened in an ingratiating smile, though Barreau’s tone was as contemptuously insulting as it could well be. He reached under the box upon which the candle stood and brought out a bottle. Barreau took it, held it up to the light, then laid it by his clothing without a word; Montell watching him with a speculative air, meanwhile. “That’s fine stuff, George,” he said tentatively. “Fine stuff. I ain’t got but a little.” “Damn you, don’t talk to me!” Barreau whirled on him. “I’m sick of the whole business, and I want none of your smooth palaver, nor whining about what I do.”