“You may be,” assured Mr. Sam grimly.  “You’re not unlike him, by the way.  A little taller and heavier, but—­”

Now it’s all very well for Mr. Sam to say I originated the idea and all that, but as truly as I am writing this, as I watched his face I saw the same thought come into it.  He looked Mr. Pierce up and down, and then he stared into the fire and puckered his mouth to whistle, but he didn’t.  And finally he glanced at me, but I was looking into the fire, too.

“Just come, haven’t you?” he asked.  “How did you get up the hill?”

“Walked,” said Mr. Pierce, smiling.  “It took some digging, too.  But I didn’t come for my health, unless you think three meals a day are necessary for health.”

Mr. Sam turned and stared at him.  “By Jove! you don’t mean it!”

“I wish I didn’t,” Mr. Pierce replied.  “One of the hardest things I’ve had to remember for the last ten hours was that for two years I voluntarily ate only two meals a day.  A man’s a fool to do a thing like that!  It’s reckless.”

Mr. Sam got up and began to walk the floor, his hands in his pockets.  He tried to get my eye, but still I looked in the fire.

“All traffic’s held up, Minnie,” he said.  “The eight o’clock train is stalled beyond the junction, in a drift.  I’ve wired the conductor, and Carter isn’t on it.”

“Well?” said I.

“If we could only get past to-day,” Mr. Sam went on; “if Thoburn would only choke to death, or—­if there was somebody around who looked like Dick.  I dare say, by to-morrow—­” He looked at Mr. Pierce, who smiled and looked at him.

“And I resemble Dick!” said Mr. Pierce.  “Well, if he’s a moral and upright young man—­”

“He isn’t!” Mr. Sam broke in savagely.  And then and there he sat down and told Mr. Pierce the trouble we were in, and what sort of cheerful idiot Dicky Carter was, and how everybody liked him, but wished he would grow up before the family good name was gone, and that now he had a chance to make good and be self-supporting, and he wasn’t around, and if Mr. Sam ever got his hands on him he’d choke a little sense down his throat.

And then Mr. Pierce told about the play and the mumps, and how he was stranded.  When Mr. Sam asked him outright if he’d take Mr. Dick’s place overnight he agreed at once.

“I haven’t anything to lose,” he said, “and anyhow I’ve been on a diet of Sweet Peas so long that a sanatorium is about what I need.”

“It’s like this,” explained Mr. Sam, “Old Stitt is pretty thoroughly jingled—­excuse me, Minnie, but it’s the fact.  I’ll take you to his room, with the lights low, and all you’ll need to do is to shake hands with him.  He’s going on the early train to-morrow.  Then you needn’t mix around much with the guests until to-morrow, and by that time I hope to have Dick within thrashing distance.”

Just as they’d got it arranged that Mr. Pierce was to put on Mr. Sam’s overcoat and walk down to the village so that he could come up in a sleigh, as if he had driven over from Yorkton—­he was only to walk across the hall in front of the office, with his collar up, just enough to show himself and then go to his room with a chill—­just as it was all arranged, Mr. Sam thought of something.