bloodguiltiness in his face, and his hair combed Indian fashion over his eyes.  As he generously contented himself with only passing a gloomy and disparaging criticism on the game of cards that the children were playing, it struck Clarence for the first time that a great deal of his real wickedness resided in his hair.  This set him to thinking that it was strange that Mr. Peyton did not try to reform him with a pair of scissors, but not until Clarence himself had for at least four days attempted to imitate Jim by combing his own hair in that fashion.

A few days later, Jim again casually favored him with a confidential interview.  Clarence had been allowed to bestride one of the team leaders postillionwise, and was correspondingly elevated, when Jim joined him, on the Mexican plug, which appeared—­no doubt a part of its wicked art—­heavily docile, and even slightly lame.

“How much,” said Jim, in a tone of gloomy confidence,—­“how much did you reckon to make by stealin’ that gal-baby, sonny?”

“Nothing,” replied Clarence with a smile.  Perhaps it was an evidence of the marked influence that Jim was beginning to exert over him that he already did not attempt to resent this fascinating implication of grownup guilt.

“It orter bin a good job, if it warn’t revenge,” continued Jim moodily.

“No, it wasn’t revenge,” said Clarence hurriedly.

“Then ye kalkilated ter get er hundred dollars reward ef the old man and old woman hadn’t bin scelped afore yet got up to ’em?” said Jim.  “That’s your blamed dodgasted luck, eh!  Enyhow, you’ll make Mrs. Peyton plank down suthin’ if she adopts the babby.  Look yer, young feller,” he said, starting suddenly and throwing his face forward, glaring fiendishly through his matted side-locks, “d’ye mean ter tell me it wasn’t a plant—­a skin game—­the hull thing?”

“A what?” said Clarence.

“D’ye mean to say”—­it was wonderful how gratuitously husky his voice became at this moment—­“d’ye mean ter tell me ye didn’t set on them Injins to wipe out the Silsbees, so that ye could hev an out-an’-out gal ORFEN on hand fer Mrs. Peyton ter adopt—­eh?”

But here Clarence was forced to protest, and strongly, although Jim contemptuously ignored it.  “Don’t lie ter me,” he repeated mysteriously, “I’m fly.  I’m dark, young fel.  We’re cahoots in this thing?” And with this artful suggestion of being in possession of Clarence’s guilty secret he departed in time to elude the usual objurgation of his superior, “Phil,” the head teamster.

Nor was his baleful fascination exercised entirely on Clarence.  In spite of Mrs. Peyton’s jealously affectionate care, Clarence’s frequent companionship, and the little circle of admiring courtiers that always surrounded Susy, it became evident that this small Eve had been secretly approached and tempted by the Satanic Jim.  She was found one day to have a few heron’s feathers in her possession with which she adorned her curls, and at another time