The veins swelled in Toppy’s big neck as he thought of Reivers, and his hitherto good-natured face took on a scowl that might have become some ancestral man-captain in the days of mace and mail, but which never before had found room on Toppy’s countenance—not even when the opposing half-backs were guilty of slugging. But he was playing another game now, an older one, a fiercer one, and one which called to him as nothing had called before. It was the man-game now; and out there in the old, stern forest, spurred by the challenge of the man who was his natural enemy, the primitive fighting-man in Toppy shook off the restraint with which breeding, education and living had cumbered him, and stood out in a fashion that would have shocked Toppy’s friends back East. Near the shop he met Miss Pearson. By her manner he saw that she had been waiting for him, but Toppy merely raised his cap and made to pass on. “Mr. Treplin!” There was astonishment at his rudeness in her exclamation. “Well?” said Toppy. “Your ankle?” “Oh, yes. Pardon me for not expressing my thanks before. It’s almost well—thanks to you and Mr. Reivers.” She made a slight shrinking movement and stood looking at him for a moment. She opened her lips, but no words came. “Old Scotty told me about your kindness in coming to see me, you and Mr. Reivers together,” said Toppy. “It was a relief to learn that your confidence in Reivers was justified.” She looked up quickly, straight into his eyes. A troubled look swept over her face. Then with a toss of the head she turned and crossed the road, and Toppy swung on his way to the room in the rear of the shop and closed the door behind him with a vicious slam. CHAPTER XII—TOPPY’S FIRST MOVE Next morning, in the cold stillness which precedes the coming of daylight in the North, Toppy stood leaning on his axe-handle cane and watched his crew of a dozen men file out of the stockade gate and turn toward the stone-quarry. They walked with the driven air of prisoners going to punishment. In the darkness their squat, shapeless figures were scarcely human. Their heads hung, their steps were listless, as if they had just completed a hard day’s work instead of having arisen from a hearty breakfast. The complete lack of spirit evinced by the men irritated Toppy. Was Reivers right after all? Were they nothing but clods, undeserving of fair and intelligent treatment? “Hey! Wake up there! You look like a bunch of corpses. Show some life!” cried Toppy, in whom the bitter morning air was sending the red blood tingling.