“Did you hear what I was saying?” he asked hoarsely.

“Well, yes,—­I think so,” returned the stranger, with a quiet smile.

“Ye ain’t goin’ back on me, Clarence, are ye,—­ain’t goin’ to gimme away afore them, old pard, are ye?” said Jim, with a sudden change to almost pathetic pleading.

“No,” returned the stranger, smiling.  “And certainly not before that interested young lady, Jim.  But stop.  Let me look at you.”

He held out both hands, took Jim’s, spread them apart for a moment with a boyish gesture, and, looking in his face, said half mischievously, half sadly, “Yes, it’s the same old Jim Hooker,—­unchanged.”

“But you’re changed,—­reg’lar war paint, Big Injin style!” said Hooker, looking up at him with an awkward mingling of admiration and envy.  “Heard you struck it rich with the old man, and was Mister Brant now!”

“Yes,” said Clarence gently, yet with a smile that had not only a tinge of weariness but even of sadness in it.

Unfortunately, the act, which was quite natural to Clarence’s sensitiveness, and indeed partly sprang from some concern in his old companion’s fortunes, translated itself by a very human process to Hooker’s consciousness as a piece of rank affectation.  He would have been exalted and exultant in Clarence’s place, consequently any other exhibition was only “airs.”  Nevertheless, at the present moment Clarence was to be placated.

“You didn’t mind my telling that story about your savin’ Susy as my own, did ye?” he said, with a hasty glance over his shoulder.  “I only did it to fool the old man and women-folks, and make talk.  You won’t blow on me?  Ye ain’t mad about it?”

It had crossed Clarence’s memory that when they were both younger Jim Hooker had once not only borrowed his story, but his name and personality as well.  Yet in his loyalty to old memories there was mingled no resentment for past injury.  “Of course not,” he said, with a smile that was, however, still thoughtful.  “Why should I?  Only I ought to tell you that Susy Peyton is living with her adopted parents not ten miles from here, and it might reach their ears.  She’s quite a young lady now, and if I wouldn’t tell her story to strangers, I don’t think you ought to, Jim.”

He said this so pleasantly that even the skeptical Jim forgot what he believed were the “airs and graces” of self-abnegation, and said, “Let’s go inside, and I’ll introduce you,” and turned to the house.  But Clarence Brant drew back.  “I’m going on as soon as my horse is fed, for I’m on a visit to Peyton, and I intend to push as far as Santa Inez still to-night.  I want to talk with you about yourself, Jim,” he added gently; “your prospects and your future.  I heard,” he went on hesitatingly, “that you were—­at work—­in a restaurant in San Francisco.  I’m glad to see that you are at least your own master here,”—­he glanced at the wagon.  “You are selling