“Wherry, too!” said he softly.  “Of course.  He stuck that other night.  I’ve been too blind to see.”  Drawing his flute from his pocket, he glanced with a curious smile and glow at a row of notches in the wood.  The first notch he had cut in the flute after the rainy night in Philip’s wigwam, the second by Mic-co’s pool, the third was subtly linked with the marshes of Glynn, and a fourth had been furtively added in the camp of his cousin.  Now with a glance at Wherry’s letters, he was quietly carving a fifth.  Who may say what they portended—­this record of notches carved upon the one friend who had always understood!

Carl was to carve another, of which he little dreamed, before the summer waned; and the spur to its making was close at hand.

The doorbell rang as he finished, and dropping the flute back into his pocket, he rang for some whiskey and cigars for the entertainment of Mr. Dorrigan, who presently appeared, at the heels of a servant, twirling his hat with a nonchalant ease much too elaborate and at variance with the look in his good eye to be genuine.

“’Lo!” said Hunch uncomfortably.

“Hello!” said Carl pleasantly, pushing the decanter across the table.

Hunch stared at his host, fidgeted, poured himself a generous drink and waited suggestively.

Carl merely laughed good-humoredly and lighted a cigar.

“Sorry, Hunch,” he regretted, “but I’ve joined the Lithia League!”

“My Gawd!” burst forth Hunch despairingly, adding in heartfelt memory of his host’s enviable steadiness of head, “My Gawd, Carl, what a waste o’ talents!”

Carl laughed.

“Sit down,” he invited, “and get it off your mind.”

But Hunch’s single eye was wandering in fascinated appraisal over Carl’s dark, pleasant face.  Even he, coarse and brutal in perception as he was, was conscious of a difference not wholly attributable to the Lithia League and felt himself impelled to some verbal recognition of his host’s conspicuous well-being.

“Ye’re on the level all right,” he swore obscurely.  “Ye’re white!  Ye’re lookin’ good, ye’re lookin’ fine—­ By the Lord Harry, Carl, I don’t know as I blame yuh!”

Unable to fathom the nature of the censure thus withheld, Carl remained silent and Hunch fell again to staring, his immovable eye ridiculously expressive in stony conjunction with the other.  Whatever he found in Carl’s face this time plainly afforded him intense relief, for he seated himself with a long breath and drew a yellowish paper from his pocket.

“I says to meself,” he explained, “’Hunch, old sport, ye’re in for it.  He’ll like as not drop yuh out of the window with an electric wire, feed yuh to an electric wolf or make yuh play hell-for-a-minute chess or some other o’ them woozy stunts ’at pop up in his bean like mushrooms, but yuh gotta square yerself with that paper.  Yuh gotta get up yer nerve an’ hike up there to the brownstone with it.’  I ask yuh,” he finished dramatically, and evidently laboring under the momentary conviction that Carl, too, was optically afflicted, “I ask yuh, Carl, to cast yer good lamp over that there paper.”