“I want to go back now,” whined Percival. “Aw shut up,” said Ducky suddenly. “You make me sick. It’s going to be hard enough on us to have you around here at best, and if you’re going to yowl around all the time, it’ll be a lot worse. Get up to bed and sleep off your grouch.” “Ducky’s right,” added Dog, picking up the big grips, which he carried to the foot of the ladder. Leaving them on the floor, he climbed halfway, and at a signal Ducky handed them up one at a time, and he boosted them through the ceiling hole onto the floor above. Percival watched this performance, but made no move to help. Out of deference to company, Spud Dugan lighted a lantern and carried it up into the loft, and still Percival sat. Finally, Dog took him by the arm, led him to the ladder, and pushed him up. Just before his head disappeared through the hole, he turned and spoke: “I’ll bet I’ll make you give me three hundred dollars.” “You lose your bet,” said Dog sullenly. “Good night.” * * * * * Percival was not up when Dog and Ducky left next morning on a long trip to the North Cañon country. Returning, dog-tired, at dark, they found him on the bench in the kitchen, sitting perfectly still, eyes straight ahead, looking at nothing. Spud Dugan whispered to Dog: “Just like that all day. Wont do nothing.” “Let him alone,” answered Dog. The next day, as reported by Spud, was just about the same, and the next no better. The third day was, in fact, slightly worse, because Percival had brought to his bench a book bound in limp leather. Books always irritated Spud. “He’ll die on you, sure. Remember that dog the nester’s squaw brought with her from over by Parma. Just sat around and died. Same with him.” “Aw, dry up,” Dog told him. But he was worried, and next morning he made excuse to stay at the house, and determined to have a talk with Percival. He drew up a backless kitchen chair and filled a cob pipe. “Montana’s not such a bad country, son,” he began. No answer. “I’ve seen lots of places--Texas, New York, Klondike, and for just plain satisfaction, Montana beats ’em all.” No answer. “Take it, now, down around Bozeman and Belgrade--there’s as fine irrigated land as there is in the world. And the Gallatin Valley. Then we’ve got oil, some places, and lots of mining around Butte and Anaconda.” The boy on the bench lifted his head. “I want to go home, and if I had three hundred dollars, I’d go.” It was pretty tough. “Come on outside a minute,” Dog said finally, and Percival reluctantly rose and followed. “Now, if you’re a poet, take a look at that valley. Ever see anything prettier than that? That’s why we’re here--this valley. Cattle graze in the free range, and there’s always water in the creek.” The boy looked up at him. “If there was three hundred dollars in that creek, I’d care for it. Otherwise not.”