He looked at the lad by his side, but the lad was looking straight ahead, tight-lipped, silent and unutterably sad. Dog gave it up, and they made the last twelve miles, which, incidentally were the worst, in a silence broken only by the never-stopping rattle of the Ford. The Ford had lights, of a sort, but after darkness set in, Dog made small use of them, driving by a sixth sense that enabled him to steer the crazy vehicle in its rock-strewn course. Twice the car broke loose and dived down dry watercourses, and Ducky had to get out and push to help get it back onto the track that Western courtesy called a road. * * * * * But all things, even bad roads, come to an end, and finally they arrived, and Spud Dugan, a sour wisp of a man with a bald head and fierce mustaches, met them with a lantern and helped tote things in. “What’s this?” he demanded abruptly, when Dog lifted out the heavy, crated washing-machine. “Little present for you. I’ll open it up when we get into the house.” They went in, Percival Bigelow James following, carrying nothing. It was a house of goodly size, made of native Montana timber such as is found along stream-beds, with a kitchen and bedroom on the first floor, and a loft above, reached by a ladder nailed to a side wall. Percival dropped onto a bench in the kitchen. Spud set about putting away stores in a cupboard. Dog found a hatchet and tore the crate from the washing-machine. “What-in-the-hell-is-it?” demanded Spud testily. “Washing-machine,” Dog told him. “Genuine Old Faithful, twenty-four fifty, F. O. B. factory. She’s a peach. Swishes the clothes back and forth, and the dirt settles in the bottom.” “Hump. What’s this thing?” “That’s the handle you work it by. Just pull the handle back and forth, and the wheels go round, and the clothes get washed in no time and all the dirt falls to the bottom. You’ll like it.” Spud shook his head. “Not me. Take her outside. I pull no handles. We wash in the creek like always--what washing we do, which aint much; and I might add that your little friend here does his own or it don’t get done, and that’s that.” Apparently that was that. Dog, mustering a grin, set the machine outside, under the leanto-porch, and suggested that they all turn in. “Where?” asked Percival in a dead voice. Dog told him, upstairs, in a fine comfortable bunk with a buffalo robe to throw over him if it got cold. Percival still sat on the bench which he had found upon entering the house. “I want three hundred dollars,” he said suddenly. “I must have three hundred dollars. You let me have three hundred dollars and take me back to where I can get a train for New York. Mother’ll pay you back.” Dog shook his head. “You get no three hundred dollars from me. Your mother gave me positive instructions. You’ll like it fine here after you get used to it, and you’ll get strong and hearty. Why, in a month, you wont want to go back, not never.”