But Gaspar shook his head.  He seemed even a little amused.

“Not against a man like you, Sinclair.  You love fighting, you see.  You’re made for fighting.  You make me think of that hawk.  All beak and talons, made to tear, remorseless, crafty.”

“That’s overrating me a pile,” muttered Riley, greatly pleased by this tribute, as he felt it to be.  “If you tried, maybe you could do a lot yourself.  You’re full of nerves, and a gent that’s full of nerves makes a first-class fighting man, once he finds out what he can do.  With them fingers of yours you could learn to handle a gun like a flash.  Start in and learn to be a man, Gaspar!”

Sinclair stretched a friendly hand toward the shoulder of the smaller man.  The hand passed through thin air.  Gaspar had slipped away.  He stood at a greater distance.  On his face there was a strong expression of displeasure.

Sinclair scowled darkly.  “Now what d’you mean by that?”

“I mean that I don’t envy you,” said Gaspar steadily.  “I’d rather have the other thing.”

“What other thing, Jig?”

Gaspar overlooked the contemptuous nickname, doubly contemptuous on the lips of a stranger.

“You go into the world and take what you want.  I’m stronger than that.”

“How are you stronger?” asked Riley.

“Because I sit in my room, and I can make the world come to me.”

“Jig, I was never smart at riddles.  Go ahead and clear yourself up with a few more words.”

The other hesitated—­not for words, but as if he wondered if it might be worth while for him to explain.  Never in Riley Sinclair’s life had he been taken so lightly.

“Will you follow me into the house?” asked Gaspar at length.

“I’ll follow you, right enough,” said Sinclair.  “That’s my job.  Lead on.”

He was brought through the living room of the cabin and into a smaller room to the side.

Comfort seemed to fill this smaller room.  Bookcases ranged along one wall were packed with books.  The couch before the window was heaped with cushions.  There was an easy chair with an adjustable back, so that one could either sit or lie in it.  There was a lamp with a big greenish-yellow shade.

“This is what I mean,” murmured Jig.

Riley Sinclair’s bold eye roved swiftly, contemptuously.  “Well, you got this place fixed up pretty stuffy,” he answered.  “Outside of that, hang me if I see what you mean.”

Cold Feet slipped into a chair and, interlacing those fingers whose delicacy baffled and disturbed Sinclair, stared over them at his companion.

“I really shouldn’t expect you to understand, my friend.”

“Friend!” Sinclair exploded.  “You’re a queer bird, Jig.  What do you mean by ’friend’?”

“Why not?” asked this amazing youth, and the quiet of his face brightened into a smile.  “I’d be swinging from the end of a rope if it weren’t for you, you know.”