“Why didn’t Carston buy the pup himself?” demanded Royce Mack, breaking the brief silence, as Joel glowered perplexedly at the visitor as though trying to place him in an elusive memory. “He’s full up, with sheep dogs,” said Brean, glibly. “So are we,” grunted Fenno. “Say, where have I run across you before?” “Perhaps at Carston’s?” suggested Brean, trying not to quail. “But I was not in these hiking clothes then. I wonder you recognize me.” “Maybe,” grumbled Joel. “But I doubt it. I’ll remember, presently. I always do.” “In the meantime,” urged Brean, with much jauntiness, “do you care to buy this dog?” “No,” replied Joel. “We don’t.” “It’s your own loss,” smiled Brean. “I offered you the chance, because Carston told me to. I must be going. By the way,” lingering at the threshold, “will you sell me a mouthful of breakfast? I shall be glad, of course, to pay a fair price for it. I hoped to get over to Carston’s ranch house in time to eat. But I overslept. If it is any trouble--” He hesitated politely. “If you had kept your eyes and ears open, on your hike,” supplied Mack, wondering at the British pedestrian’s ignorance of the ranch-country’s ways, “you’d know folks around here don’t let a stranger pay for a meal. If an American had offered to, it’d have been an insult. Being foreign, I s’pose you don’t know any better. Draw up a chair and eat. Stop at the stove and bring the coffee-pot along with you.” He spoke with no hospitality. Yet he was almost fawningly friendly, compared with his partner, who continued to favor the guest with a deepening scowl of perplexity. Brean was glad he had shaved the beard which had been one of his salient marks when last he had met these men. Also that, this time, he had abandoned his wonted tramplike speech. Eagerly, yet with no show of his stark eagerness, he drew up a rickety chair to the board; and began to eat. Nor did he abandon the table manners which, like correct speech, were his birthright. Royce, covertly watching, was impressed. The collie lay down at Brean’s feet. The pup was hungry. But he did not beg. This, too, impressed Royce Mack. Picking up a greasy lump of pork from the central dish, Royce tossed it to the pup. The latter caught it in mid-air--an easy trick his breeder had long since taught him. Then he proceeded to eat it,--not wolfishly, but with a certain highbred daintiness. “What’s his name?” asked Mack. “Treve,” said Brean, trying not to sound as if his mouth were chuck-full. “Funny name for a dog,” commented Royce. “Not in my country,” civilly contradicted Brean, pouring himself another cup of coffee. “What’s the matter with his ear?” pursued Mack. “Torn in a fight,” replied Brean, wishing devoutly there might be more eating and less talking at this meal. “I set it, as best I could. It’s only makeshift. But the splint and the bandage must stay on, for a few days. After that the ear will be as good as new.”