[Illustration:  Dick tottered upon the step and went off backward.]

Jim Felton was a wise young man.  He stood back and let them fight it out, and when it was over he said never a word until Dick had picked himself up and walked off, holding to his nose a handkerchief that reddened rapidly.

“Say, you are a son-of-a-gun to fight,” he observed admiringly then to Ford.  “Don’t you know Dick’s supposed to be abso-lute-ly unlickable?”

“May be so—­but he sure shows all the symptoms of being licked right at present.”  Ford moved a thumb joint gently to see whether it was really dislocated or merely felt that way.

“He’s going up to the house now, to tell the missus,” remarked Jim, craning his neck from the doorway.

“If he does that,” Ford replied calmly, “I’ll half kill him next time.  What I gave him just now is only a sample package left on the doorstep to try.”  He sat down upon a corner of the table and began to make himself a smoke.  “Is he going up to the house—­honest?” He would not yield to the impulse to look and see for himself.

“We-el, the trail he’s taking has no other logical destination,” drawled Jim.  “He’s across the bridge.”  When Ford showed no disposition to say anything to that, Jim came in and closed the door.  “Say, what laid old Mose out so nice?” he asked, with an indolent sort of curiosity.  “Booze?  Or just bumps?”

“A little of both,” said Ford indifferently, between puffs.  He was thinking of the tale Dick would tell at the house, and he was thinking of the probable effect upon one listener; the other didn’t worry him, though he liked Mrs. Kate very much.

Jim went over and investigated; discovering that Mose was close to snoring, he sat upon a corner of the other table, swung a spurred boot, and regarded Ford interestedly over his own cigarette building.  “Say, for a man that’s supposed to be soused,” he began, after a silence, “you act and talk remarkably lucid.  I wish I could carry booze like that,” he added regretfully.  “But I can’t; my tongue and my legs always betray the guilty secret.  Have you got any particular system, or is it just a gift?”

“No”—­Ford shook his head—­“nothing like that.  I just don’t happen to be drunk.”  He eyed Jim sharply while he considered within himself.  “It looks to me,” he began, after a moment, “as if our friend Dick had framed up a nice little plant.  One way and another I got wise to the whole thing; but for the life of me, I can’t see what made him do it.  Lordy me!  I never kicked him on any bunion!” He grinned, as memory flashed a brief, mental picture of Sunset and certain incidents which occurred there.  But memory never lets well enough alone, and one is lucky to escape without seeing a picture that leaves a sting; Ford’s smile ended in a scowl.