“He must be about twenty-five or -six years old now. You remember when we were in Klondike we got a letter from my sister about her having a kid, and I made him a nugget watchchain.” “Oh, yes. You bummed most of those nuggets off me. But what about it? Ten minutes ago you were in a tooting hurry to get home, and now you sit here drooling like a new calf.” “I’m breaking it to you gently,” said Dog. “Fact is, Ducky, this letter says the boy’s health aint been any too good. Threatened with T.B., I reckon, though she don’t come right out with it. My sister wants this Percival to come out and pay us a visit.” “Huh?” “Yea-ah. I’ll read you the finish of it.” He pulled the letter from the pocket of his shirt, shucked the many closely written leaves from the envelope and read the concluding sentences. “‘And so, because I know that you would refuse, yet dare not give you an opportunity to refuse, I have arranged for Percy to start West on the day after mailing this letter, and of course you will arrange to meet him; and while your life must be rude and living-quarters of the roughest, we are sure that the change will be just what he needs. We have bought his ticket and berth and shall furnish him with funds to pay for meals and incidentals, but he must work and earn and stay with you until he has earned enough to bring him home again. This is part of our plan--a return to health, and the necessary discipline to make a man of him.’” “Good gosh!” Ducky sat bolt upright now. “This letter came yesterday. That means he’ll be here on today’s stage?” “That’s it,” said Dog. There was nothing more to be said. When things happen to people, things happen to them, and that’s all there is to it. * * * * * They summoned courage, finally, to discuss details. He could sleep in the loft--up there with Spud Dugan, the man-of-all-work about the place. Spud wouldn’t like it, and the boy wouldn’t care for Spud’s snoring, but they would have to put up with one another. He probably smoked tailor-made cigarettes. Ducky went to get a carton. He probably would be one of those fellows that’s always got to be washing himself. Dog went to buy some white soap, and then, remembering something, bought a dozen cakes of laundry soap as well. Time for the stage any time now, and presently it came, in an enveloping swirl of gray dust--a big truck, with an extra seat crosswise behind the driver, and the back end filled with freight. “Here he is,” bawled Duke Envers, the driver, and added to the slim youngster at his side: “There’s your uncle over there, him with the face like a bench bull.” The young man climbed down, stiffly. He wore a flappy hat that had been pearl-colored, tweed knickerbockers, and boots of that golden yellow shade peculiar to New York outfitting shops. “He’s got a couple of bags that was made from a cow apiece,” added Duke, “and they’s a crate of mail-order stuff for you, Dog.”