“I savez nothing as yet,” laughed the new supervisor, “but perhaps I shall if you’ll tell me what is going to happen in the next month or six weeks.”

“I’m coming to that, right now.  How would you like to take a hunting trip over on the wilderness side of the range?  There are big woods and big game.”

Frisbie grinned.  He was a little man, with sharp black eyes shaded by the heaviest of black brows, and it was his notion to trim his mustaches and beard after the fashion set by the third Napoleon and imitated faithfully by those who sing the part of Mephistopheles in Faust.  Hence, his grin was handsomely diabolic.

“You needn’t ask me what I’d like; you just tell me what you want me to do,” he rejoined, with clansman loyalty.

“So I will,” said Ford, taking the reins of authority.  “We leave here to-morrow morning for a trip over the Pass and down the Pannikin on the other side, and if anybody asks you why, you can say that we expect to kill a deer or two, and possibly a bear.  Your part of the outsetting, however, is to pack your surveying instruments on the burro saddles so they’ll pass for grub-boxes, tent-poles, and the like.”

“Call it done,” said Frisbie.  “But why all this stage play?  Can’t you anticipate that much without endangering your bubble?”

Ford lowered his voice again.

“I gave you the hint.  Penfield, my chief clerk—­his desk is just on the other side of that partition—­is an ex-main-line man, shoved upon me when I didn’t want him.  He was General Manager North’s stenographer.  For reasons which will be apparent to you a little later on, I want to blow my bubble in my own way; or, to change the figure, I’d like to fire the first volley myself.”

Frisbie’s grin was rather more than less diabolic.

“Then I’d begin by firing Mr. Penfield, himself,” he remarked.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said Ford.  “There are going to be obstacles enough in the way without slapping Mr. North in the face as a preliminary.  Under the circumstances, he’d take it that way; Penfield would make sure that he took it that way.”

It was at this point in the low-toned conference that the ingenious young man in the outer office put down the desk telephone ear-piece long enough to smite with his fist at some air-drawn antagonist.  Curiosity was this young man’s capital weakness, and he had tinkered the wires of the private telephone system so that the flicking of a switch made him an auditor at any conversation carried on in the private office.  He was listening intently and eagerly again when Ford said, still in the same guarded tone: 

“No, I can’t fire Penfield, and I don’t particularly want to.  He is a good office man, and loyal to his salt:  it’s my misfortune that it is Mr. North’s salt-cellar, and not mine, that he dips into.  Besides, I’d have trouble in replacing him.  Saint’s Rest isn’t exactly the paradise its name implies—­for a clean-cut, well-mannered young fellow with social leanings.”