“Dang it!  That’s what I ses, dang it!  You’ll pardon me, ladies, but my feelings get the better of me at times.  I don’t like him.  Lablache—­I hates him,” and he strode out of the room, his old face aflame with annoyance, to discharge the hospitable duties of the prairie.

As the door closed behind him Dr. Abbot laughed constrainedly.

“Lablache doesn’t seem popular—­here.”

No one answered his remark.  Then “Poker” John looked over at the other men.

“We must go and help to put his horses away.”

There was no suggestion in his words, merely a statement of plain facts.  “Lord” Bill nodded and the three men rose and went to the door.

As they disappeared Jacky turned to Mrs. Norton and Aunt Margaret.

“If that’s Lablache—­I’m off to bed.”

Her tone was one of uncompromising decision.  Mrs. Abbot was less assured.

“Do you think it polite—­wise?”

“Come along, aunt.  Never mind about politeness or wisdom.  What do you say, Mrs. Norton?”

“As you like, Miss Jacky.  I must stay up, or—­”

“Yes—­the men can entertain him.”

Just then Lablache’s voice was heard outside.  It was a peculiar, guttural, gasping voice.  Aunt Margaret looked doubtfully from Jacky to Mrs. Norton.  The latter nodded smilingly.  Then following Jacky’s lead she passed up the staircase which led from the kitchen to the rooms above.  A moment later the door opened and Lablache and the other men entered.

“They’ve gone to bed,” said Mrs. Norton, in answer to “Poker” John’s look of inquiry.

“Tired, no doubt,” put in Lablache, drily.

“And not without reason, I guess,” retorted “Poker” John, sharply.  He had not failed to note the other’s tone.

Lablache laughed quietly, but his keen, restless eyes shot an unpleasant glance at the speaker from beneath their heavy lids.

He was a burly man.  In bulk he was of much the same proportions as old John Allandale.  But while John was big with the weight of muscle and frame, Lablache was flabby with fat.  In face he was the antithesis of the other.  Whilst “Poker” John was the picture of florid tanning—­While his face, although perhaps a trifle weak in its lower formation, was bold, honest, and redounding with kindly nature, Lablache’s was bilious-looking and heavy with obesity.  Whatever character was there, it was lost in the heavy folds of flesh with which it was wreathed.  His jowl was ponderous, and his little mouth was tightly compressed, while his deep-sunken, bilious eyes peered from between heavy, lashless lids.