Colter, steadily sculling his flat-bottomed craft, looked with evident delight on these things--his gaunt form stood steadily on its long legs, there was determined, practiced deliberation in his movements and his were the eyes that first discovered this and that rarity. The intense gaze of the man seemed to burn into the dim forest walls of summer, his ears caught every subdued note, he peered like a sort of necromancer at a spider web, at a snail lethargically climbing the mud bank or a patch of sun dew, all its little gummy tentacles alert for fly-capture. Minga, turning once, heard him mutter something under his breath; she stole a startled glance at him as her own boat sped along, and leaned forward. "Don't go too fast, we mustn't get too far ahead of Sard; I don't like to leave her alone with that--that man." Shipman raised his eyebrows. "Why," using her undertones, "isn't he the chauffeur? He's all right, isn't he?" Minga was mysterious; a curious womanly accent of responsibility sat strangely on this little figure, with pretty legs in trim knickerbockers and puttees, and dark head of bobbed hair. "He's just plain queer," objected Minga. "You'd never guess that the Judge and Miss Reely know nothing about him; that man, you see, is one of Sard's pickups." "Pickups." Shipman frowned, while he smiled. Minga luxuriated in the irregularity of the thing. "Oh," she protested, "you may think you know Sard, but you don't--nobody," said Minga solemnly, "knows her as I do. Of course," the little bobbed head shook wisely, "Sard wouldn't do anything--er--well, you know." Shipman tried to control his humor. "Of course not," he echoed. "Just the same," Minga was dramatic, "she goes around picking up queer people and sick dogs and babies and spending her money on them and getting them into hospitals and oh, awful things," said Minga, darkly. "She knows girls that haven't husbands and well----" she gave a gesture which though vague was eloquent. The lawyer led her on. "So Miss Sard picked up this vagabond." "Well, maybe not a vagabond," Minga looked over her shoulder warily, "a tramp, sort of, and he might be crazy. I heard him," she went on mysteriously, "use Latin words a moment ago and then look around, oh, so strangely." "Sure thing," Shipman, with equal solemnity, nodded; "anyone who uses Latin or Greek these days is mad, of course; but it's a divine madness. I use it myself. I'm a little mad, you know." He bent amused eyes on his companion. "How did you know it was Latin?" Minga looked back a little exultantly; the coquette in her never very far away from the surface, rose to his teasing. "I know some," announced this young person with a toss; "for instance," Minga became rather glib at the game they were playing, this was her "line," "I know all the conjugations of the verb 'amo.'"