He was in his State Street office, listening to the ticker, whose insistent clatter steadily swelled to a roar, and as he hurried toward it to watch Amalgamated, the machine burst with a mighty report--and Somers, starting up, became dimly conscious of a limping mustang loping up the pass, carrying a long, lean man, whose face was masked by a paste of sweat and alkali dust. Slipping from the saddle of the panting beast, the man glanced swiftly about, then clambered upward, straight toward Somers, Winchester in hand. With clearing vision, Somers saw beneath the masking dust a face that brought a train of dear and dormant memories, and with an exclamation of delight he sprang to his feet. “Tubby!” he cried. “Tubby Haines! Is it really you?” The lean man lowered the gun that had leaped to his shoulder as Somers arose. “Somers! Bob Somers!” he exclaimed, and scrambled up to grasp the outstretched hand. He dropped wearily upon a boulder, wiped his dripping face with the sleeve of a flannel shirt, and stared into Somers’ face, amazement and delight shining in his keen eyes. “Good old Scrappy Somers,” he murmured. “I can’t quite realize that you’re ’way out here, thousands of miles from home.” “Visiting Hal Fielding,” explained Somers. “You know Fielding, of course; everybody around here does.” “I’ve had occasional dealings with him--and got the worst of it,” Haines answered carelessly, fingering the gun at his knee and glancing eastward. “I’ve heard that he’s pretty shrewd,” said Somers, with a laugh. “Too keen for me,” remarked Haines. “It takes a mighty good man to get ahead of him--and stay ahead.” “Then you’re in the cattle business, too?” queried Somers. “In a desultory sort of way. Just now I’m thinking of getting out of it; it’s too wearing; keeps me too much on the jump.” Somers chuckled, and patted the lean man’s broad shoulder affectionately. “Same old Tubby!” he said. “Always wanted to take things easy. I never could understand why the boys dubbed you Tubby, when ‘Sleepy’ or ‘Lazy’ would have been so much more appropriate.” “Called me Tubby because I was lean. Just as they named you ‘Scrappy’ because you never would fight,” the other observed. “Why should I fight,” laughed Somers, “when I had such a valiant champion in you?” “Well, you needed a champion,” said Haines, with a kindly gleam in his eyes. “You were about as puny as they made ’em; and fighting was fun for me--then.” “Remember the time you licked Bully Dormer?” asked Somers, with a musing smile. “Ah, but that _was_ a fight--and a licking.” “The licking he got wasn’t in it with the one old MacStinger gave me that evening,” remarked Haines, grinning. “Gee, Scrappy! I can feel that birch yet. I reckon old Mac’s dead now.” “Died in the harness. His last words were ‘_Omnia Gallia_.’ Remember how Anne used to cry whenever he’d wallop you? I often joke her about it yet.”