Now that he had seen the name cut in the rock along with young Dyker’s, Tom tried to recall what old Caleb had told him about Ganley, that he had settled in the west and prospered and sent money back to his mother with which to build a new house. Tom recalled that he had thought lithe young man must have been exceptionally prosperous to do that. The talk, he recalled, had been occasioned by the erratic little old man mistaking an emaciated, shabby stranger for Joe Ganley. And that was about all that he remembered of the trivial incident. Now here was this same name carved with that of the grandson on a rock on the mountain top. These two boys had climbed the mountain in nineteen hundred and seven. That was before the murder, before the valley was flooded. Tom did not sleep that night. The shock of his conviction that Whalen was none other than the fugitive Anson Dyker kept him awake. And in sequel of his discovery, he lived over the story, as he knew it, of the tragedy which had shocked the countryside so long ago. How different the lives of those two boys who had trudged up the mountain together fifteen years before. When the reservoir drove them out, one went out west, prospered, married, sent money home. In his accustomed surroundings far away did he ever think of his name carved on the top of Overlook Mountain? And the other. What a botch had he made of his young life! Killed a kindly generous old man and fled. Killed him in futile and insane frenzy. Struck him down in misguided passion born of the worthy love of his grandparents and his boyhood home. How could any person capable of such feelings, such love and loyalty, do such a horrible thing? And this solitary, taciturn man, Ned Whalen, had been that boy. In his musings, Tom thought of poor old Caleb and his cane, of his wanderings, and of himself, Tom, finding a haven for him at last. He thought of the old man’s sturdy hatred and defiance of the great reservoir and of his resolute conviction of his grandson’s innocence. But Tom knew more about it than poor old Caleb did, and this train of musing turned his thoughts to Brent Gaylong, good old Brent, and how he had sat on the stool in the newspaper office in Kingston with the full account of the whole business open before him. He thought (he did not know why) of something that Brent had said to him. He was always recalling things that Brent said. “_You can have anything you want if you’re willing to pay the price. I can have the gold cup in Administration Shack but I’d go to jail and that would be the price._” Tom had laughed at the time but now he was appalled at the awful truth of it. For he knew now—as he lay there wide awake in the little cottage on the summit of Overlook Mountain—he knew that the sprightly _Goodfellow_ was his, that he could stand upon its deck and look about and say, “She’s mine!” That he could raise his owner’s pennant and sail away in her _if he really wanted to_. Two thousand reward.... Price!