When Conniston told him that he should be glad to have him stay, and as his and the company’s guest, Jimmie Kent beamed.

“That’s bully of you!  If you don’t mind, and we can scare up a horse for me, I’d like to ride into Valley City with you?  I can send a wire from there to my firm asking for an indefinite vacation.  Oh, they’ll grant it, all right.  They want a man like me in their business.”

It was after one o’clock, work was in progress, and Conniston and Jimmie Kent swung into their saddles and started for Valley City.  Before they had ridden a mile down the mountainous road Conniston heard Kent whistle softly, and ahead of them, coming to meet them, saw a light pole buggy swiftly approaching.  A moment later and the man driving had stopped his horses and was looking with small, shrewd eyes into Conniston’s.

He was a short man, round of face, round of eyes, round of stomach.  Very fair, very bland, very red under the flaming sun, the sweat trickling down his face and upon the crumpled white of his shirt-bosom.  His eyes were mildly surprised as they rested upon Kent.  They were only smiling as they returned to Conniston.

“I was looking for Mr. Conniston, the superintendent,” he said, in a soft, fat voice.  “Can you direct me—­”

“I am Conniston.  And I am in a very big hurry.  What can I do for you?”

The man in the buggy swelled pompously.

“I am Oliver Swinnerton,” he said, with dignity.  And then suffering what he might have been pleased to consider austerity to melt under a soft, fat smile, “Glad to know you, Conniston.  Shake!”

He put out a soft, fat hand.  Conniston stared at him in amazement.

“Swinnerton!” he cried, sharply.  “Oliver Swinnerton!  And what in the world do you want with me?”

When it was obvious that Conniston was not going to lean forward in the saddle to take his hand Mr. Swinnerton withdrew it to mop his moist forehead.

“Oliver Swinnerton,” he repeated, nodding pleasantly.  “And I wanted to talk with you about”—­his left eyelid, red and puffy, drooped, and his right eye squinted craftily—­“about reclamation.”

“I can’t imagine what common interests you and I have in reclamation.  And I am in a hurry.”

Oliver Swinnerton chuckled as at a rare jest.

“How do, Kent?” was what he said, having seen Jimmie Kent, it would seem, for the first time.  “And what might you be doing in this part of the country?”

Jimmie Kent’s voice was as pleasant as Swinnerton’s had been.

“Maybe you remember how you did me up in the matter of the Bolton town lots, Mr. Swinnerton?  Well, I am just sticking around for the fun of seeing some one do you up.”

Mr. Swinnerton’s chuckle was softer, oilier than before.  He smiled upon Kent as though the sandy-haired man were in truth the apple of his eye.

“Always up to your little repartee, ain’t you, Jimmie?  Well, well!  And now, Mr. Conniston—­Jimmie, you’ll pardon us?—­may I have a word in private with you?”