“It’s Tomlinson-Thorpe.  You fellows have heard of him, of course?”

“Never,” said Ajax.

“The International!  You ought to see him go through a scrum with half a dozen fellows on his back.”

“A footballer,” said my brother thoughtfully.

“One of the best.  Naturally he puts on a little side.  He has money, and I told him he could double it in a year or two.”

“You told him that?  Have you doubled your capital, Jim?”

“Well—­er—­no.  But I’m rather a Juggins.  Thorpe is as ’cute as they make ’em.”

“A man of mind and muscle,” murmured Ajax.

“And my greatest pal,” added the enthusiastic James.

* * * * *

Both Ajax and I took a profound dislike to Tomlinson-Thorpe the moment we set eyes upon him.  He presented what is worst in the Briton abroad —­a complacent aggressiveness tempered by a condescension which nothing but a bullet can lay low.  But undeniably he was specially designed to go through scrums or Kitchen Lancers, the admired of all beholders.

“A schoolgirl’s darling,” growled the injudicious Ajax.

“Nothing of the sort,” retorted Jim.  “I mean,” he added, “that Thorpe appeals to—­er—­mature women.  I know for a fact that the wife of a baronet is head over ears in love with him.”

“I hope he didn’t tell you so,” said Ajax.

“I should think not.  First and last he’s a gentleman.”

During the next few weeks we had abundant opportunity of testing this assertion, for Thorpe was kind enough to consume much of our time and provisions.  He bought himself a smart pony, and, very accurately turned out, would canter down to the ranch-house three or four times a week.

“There’s nothing to learn up there,” he explained.

It is fair to add that he helped us on the range, and exhibited aptitude in the handling of cattle and horses.

Meanwhile, his advent had made an enormous difference to the Mistertons.  Jim fetched a hired girl from town, and Angela was relieved, during a scorching summer, of a housewife’s most intolerable duties.  Also, when Jim was hard at work clearing his brush-hills, wrestling with refractory roots of chaparral and manzanita, his greatest pal was kind enough to undertake the entertainment of Angela.  The pair rode about together, and Jim told us that it did his heart good to see how the little woman had brightened up.  Thorpe, for his part, admitted with becoming modesty that he was most awfully sorry for his friend’s wife.

“My heart bleeds for her,” he told Ajax.

“The bounder with the bleeding heart,” said Ajax to me that same evening.

“We don’t know that he is a bounder,” I objected.

“He bounds, and he is as unconscious of his bounds as a kangaroo.  As for Jim, he is the apex of the world’s pyramid of fools.”

“Angela can take care of herself.”