That hardened “ginthleman,” absently sipping his coffee, flung a faintly-derisive, patient smile at his accuser.  A perfect understanding seemed to exist between the two men.  Redmond, musing upon the pathetically-sordid drama he had witnessed not so many hours since, relapsed into a reverie of speculation.

The silence was suddenly broken by the sharp trill of the telephone.  Slavin arose lethargically from the mess-table and answered it.

“Hullo! yis!  Slavin shpeakin’!  Fwat?—­all right Nick!  I’ll sind a man shortly an’ vag um!  So long!  Oh, hold on, Nick! . . .  May th’ divil niver know ye’re dead till ye’re tu hours in Hivin!  Fwhat?—­Oh, thank yez!  Same tu yez!  Well! . . . so long!”

“Hobo worryin’ Nick Lee at Cow Run.  Scared av fire in th’ livery-shtable.  Go yu’, Yorkey!” He eyed George a moment in curious speculation.  “Yu’ had betther go along tu, Ridmond!  Exercise yez harse an’”—­he lit his pipe noisily—­“learn th’ lay av th’ thrails.”  He turned to the senior constable.  “If ye can lay hould av th’ J.P. there, get this shtiff committed an’ let Ridmond take thrain wid um tu th’ Post.  Yu’ return wid th’ harses!”

“Why can’t Redmond nip down there on a way-freight and do the whole thing?” said Yorke, a trifle sulkily.  “It seems rot sending two men mounted for one blooming hobo.”

“Eyah!” murmured Slavin with suspicious mildness, “‘tis th’ long toime since I have used me shtripes tu give men undher me wan ordher twice.”

Yorke flashed a slightly apprehensive glance at his superior’s face.  Then, without another word, he reached for his side-arms, bridle, and fur-coat.  He knew his man.

Redmond followed suit and they adjourned to the stable.

“I saw that beggar yesterday—­on my way up,” remarked George, ill-advisedly.

Yorke stared.  “The hell you did! . . . why didn’t you vag him then?” he retorted irritably.

Bursting with silent wrath at the “choke-off,” with difficulty Redmond held his peace.  In silence they saddled up and leading the horses out prepared to mount.  Yorke swung up on the splendid, mettled black—­“Parson.”  He had an ideal cavalry seat, and as with an easy grace he gently controlled his impatient horse, with an inscrutable, mask-like countenance he watched Redmond and the sorrel “Fox.”

With toe in the leather-covered stirrup the latter reached for the saddle-horn.  Poor George! fuming inwardly over one humiliation caused him shortly to be the recipient of another.  Too late to his preoccupied mind came Slavin’s warning of the day before.

Like a flash the sorrel whirled to the “off-side” and Redmond, swung off his balance, revolved into space and was pitched on his hands and knees in the snow.  Fortunately his foot had slipped clear of the stirrup.  In this somewhat ignominious position dizzily he heard Yorke’s mocking tones: 

“What are the odds on Fox, bookie? . . .  I’d like a few of those dollars when you’ve quite finished picking them all up.”