De Laney grinned, half-embarrassed as usual.

“It’s a family name,” said he.  “It’s the name of an ancestor.”

He never knew whether or not these vivacious youths really desired the varied information they demanded.

The Leslies looked upon him with awe.

“You don’t mean to tell me,” said Bertie, “that you are a Bennington!  Well, well!  This is a small world!  We will celebrate the discovery.”  He walked to the door and touched a bell five times.  “Beautiful system,” he explained.  “In a moment Karl will appear with five beers.  This arrangement is possible because never, in any circumstances, do we ring for anything but beer.”

The beer came.  Two steins, two glasses, and a carefully scrubbed shaving mug were pressed into service.  After the excitement of finding all these things had died, and the five men were grouped about the place in ungraceful but comfortable attitudes, Bennington bid for the sympathy he had sought in this visit.

“Fellows,” said he, “I’ve something to tell you.”

“Let her flicker,” said Jim.

“I’m going away next week.  It’s all settled.”

“Bar Harbour, Trouville, Paris, or Berlin?”

“None of them.  I’m going West.”

“Santa Barbara, Los Angeles, San Diego, or Monterey?”

“None of them.  I’m going to the real West.  I’m going to a mining camp.”

The Leslies straightened their backbones.

“Don’t spring things on us that way,” reproved Bertie severely; “you’ll give us heart disease.  Now repeat softly.”

“I am going to a mining camp,” obeyed Bennington, a little shamefacedly.

“With whom?”

“Alone.”

This time the Leslies sprang quite to their feet.

“By the Great Horn Spoon, man!” cried Jim.  “Alone!  No chaperon!  Good Lord!”

“Yes,” said Bennington, “I’ve always wanted to go West.  I want to write, and I’m sure, in that great, free country, I’ll get a chance for development.  I had to work hard to induce father and mother to consent, but it’s done now, and I leave next week.  Father procured me a position out there in one of the camps.  I’m to be local treasurer, or something like that; I’m not quite sure, you see, for I haven’t talked with Bishop yet.  I go to his office for directions to-morrow.”

At the mention of Bishop the Leslies glanced at each other behind the young man’s back.

“Bishop?” repeated Jim.  “Where’s your job located?”

“In the Black Hills of South Dakota, somewhere near a little place called Spanish Gulch.”

This time the Leslies winked at each other.

“It’s a nice country,” commented Bert vaguely; “I’ve been there.”

“Oh, have you?” cried the young man.  “What’s it like?”

“Hills, pines, log houses, good hunting—­oh, it’s Western enough.”

A clock struck in a church tower outside.  In spite of himself, Bennington started.