“You can pay for it if you want to!  You don’t get a cent out of me.”

Conniston took one stride to him, putting a heavy hand upon Hapgood’s narrow shoulder.

“You infernal little shrimp!” he cried, hoarsely.  “If we weren’t guests here I’d take a holy glee in slapping your face!  By the Lord, I’ve a mind to do it anyhow!”

Hapgood jerked back, his arm lifted to shelter his face.  And Conniston, with a short laugh, dropped his hand to his side.  As he did so he saw Miss Crawford was coming toward them through the yard from the corner of the house.  A middle-aged man, heavy and broad-shouldered and white-haired, was with her.  He turned to meet her.

“Mr. Conniston,” she was saying, “this is my father.  And, papa, this is Mr. Hapgood.”

Mr. Crawford came up the steps, giving his hand in a hearty grip to the two men who came forward to meet him, his voice, deep and grave, assuring them that he was glad that they had stayed over at his home.  His face was stern, grave like his voice, clean-shaven, and handsome in a way of manly, independent strength.

“Argyl tells me,” he said, to Conniston, as they all sat down, “that you are expecting some money by wire.  You are leaving us, then, right away?”

“I did expect some money,” Conniston laughed, his good humor with him again.  “I wired to my father for it.  And I just had his answer.  There is nothing doing.”

Mr. Crawford lifted his eyebrows.  Argyl leaned forward.

“He said,” went on Conniston, lightly, “that he would not send me a dollar.  You see, he wants me to do something for myself.  And,” with a rueful grin, “I am in debt to you for a dollar to pay for my message—­and I haven’t ten cents!”

Mr. Crawford laughed with him.  “We won’t worry about the dollar just now, Mr. Conniston.  What are you going to do?”

Conniston scratched his head.  “I don’t know.  I—­” And then Argyl’s words came back to him, and he surprised himself by saying:  “Most men go to work when they’re strapped, don’t they?  I guess I’ll go to work.”

“I don’t mean to be too personal, but—­are you used to working?”

“I never did a day’s work in my life.”

“Then what can you do?”

“I don’t know.  I—­you see, I never figured on this.  I—­I—­Do you happen to know anybody who wants a man?”

A little flicker of a smile shot across Crawford’s face.

“We’re all looking for men—­good men—­all the time.  I can use a half-dozen more cow-punchers right now.  Do you want to try it?”

Conniston’s one glance of the girl’s eager face decided him.

“I’ve always had a curiosity to know what they did when they punched the poor brutes,” he grinned back.  “And I can work out that dollar I owe you too, can’t I?”

“You’re engaged,” returned Mr. Crawford, crisply.  “Thirty dollars a month and found.  I’ll have one of the boys show you where the bunk-house is.  You’ll begin work in the morning.”