Pinnacle City sounded interesting, like a small town. Jim Bailey had always lived in a big city. A sudden thought caused him to squint at the faded wall-paper of his room. Just suppose this Ed McLean had never--of course he had never seen Cliff De Haven. Bob Hawley had told McLean about Cliff. Why not take a chance? No job, no home, no ties of any kind. Jim Bailey grinned slowly. “Wear no fancy clothes,” he quoted aloud. “You’re supposed to be in meager circumstances. Brother, you meant me!” He took his almost-empty suit-case and left the house. There was no one in the lobby. He walked to the ticket office, where he asked about the transportation. After being shunted from desk to desk, he was sent into an office, where the man said: “Have you anything for identification?” Jim Bailey shook his head. “Not a thing. Oh, yes--this letter.” It was the one sent to Cliff De Haven. The man looked at it. “You look honest, young man,” he said smiling. “Here is your ticket, and here is the ten dollars expense money.” Jim Bailey walked out of the office and headed for the depot. “Good-by, Jim Bailey,” he said to himself. “I feel like a new man. Maybe I’ll just get kicked in the pants, maybe they’ll dump me into a nice Arizona jail. That is in the hands of the gods. There is one angle, though, in which I can excel--and that is in forgetting that my name ever was Cliff De Haven. If I live and prosper, I’ll send ten dollars to that landlady.” The town of Northport is twenty-five miles north of Pinnacle City. Passengers for Pinnacle City get off the train at Northport, and take the stage. Northport itself is no metropolis, with its one street and few false-fronted buildings. Jim Bailey looked it over and decided it would be a good place to get out of at once. However, the stage would not leave for an hour, so he sat down in the little stage-depot and tried to enjoy a smoke. The nearer he got to Pinnacle City the less he thought of this personal masquerade he was going to attend. * * * * * Northport was depressing. At least it was until a young lady came from the depot, carrying a valise, which she placed on a seat. She was little over five feet tall, with dark, wavy hair, a beautiful olive complexion, and wonderful eyes. Jim Bailey decided that there wasn’t anything wrong with those lips either. Jim Bailey admired beauty, but was woefully girl-shy. He had felt that a girl was a luxury far beyond his pocket-book. An old timer came into the depot, grizzled, bow-legged, clad in overalls, flannel shirt and high-heeled boots. He stared at the girl for a moment and blurted: “Mary Deal--or I’m a sizzlin’ sidewinder!” “You’re not, Uncle Len,” laughed the girl. “How are you?” “I’m finer’n frawg-hair, Mary. Golly, I’m shore glad to see yuh. It’s been--uh-h-h-h--Mary, I plumb forgot.” “About Uncle Clint?” asked the girl. The man nodded.