Bat’s sleepy eyes emitted sparks and his good natured smile widened to an open grin.

“The Swede happened to use a U. S. Forest hatchet when he cut those logs,” he said.  “I told him to be sure and stamp the butt end of each log U. S., duly inspected,” he said.

Moyese dropped the map and the pencil and his heavy hand with a thud on the desk and laughed noiselessly down into the creases of his fat double chin and into the wrinkling rotundity of his white vest.

“And to cinch it,” continued Brydges, “as the fellow’s permit didn’t cover the Gully, I got some blanket railway scrip for an Irishman, O’Finnigan, Shanty Town, and planked it on the Gully.  You see, Senator, by law the settlers can go in on the National Forests wherever it has been surveyed and declared agricultural land; but they can’t go in and get title till it is surveyed and passed.  But you can plaster the railway scrip where it is unsurveyed.  That’s the little joker somebody tucked in when the scrip railway act was passed.  I guess by the time they have red-taped and trapesed round and wrangled those two tangles of title out, the logs will be safe down the River; and I guess that will about see the finish of Wayland before the coal cases come up—­”

“That’s it, Brydges.”  Moyese had lowered his voice.  “What about Wayland?  Have you found out anything?  Where the devil is he?  He isn’t on his patrol!  He hasn’t been at the Ridge for three weeks.  He hasn’t been at the Ridge since I left for Washington.  If we could prove how he’s been using Government time,” he paused to reflect. “That might be shortest way out!  Did you find out anything at the MacDonald Ranch?”

Bat threw a precautionary glance over his shoulder towards the door opening on the street.  Then he rose, walked across the office, shut the door, came back and drawing his chair close to the desk opposite the Senator, sat down astride with his feet tucked back one round each hind leg.

“Yes, I did; and no again, I didn’t!  It’s just as it may strike you!  As a news man, I know how this kind of yarn would be taken by the public.”

“Oh, come on with it, Brydges!” Moyese had pushed back and was holding the edge of the desk with his hands.  Mr. Bat Brydges recognized that while the creases of good-nature crinkled at the chin, the jaws and the hands had locked.

“Your newsman got this despatch from Mine City:  you see it’s pretty vague:  ’bodies of two men found forty miles from branch of P. & O. Line, thought to be drovers overcome by heat and thirst.’  I wired for more particulars; but the railway hands had shovelled the bodies under.”