The guests looked up—­gratified but astonished.  “Are ye sure, ma’am, you don’t mind it?” said Joe politely.

“Not at all,” responded Mrs. Pottinger briefly.  “In fact, as my physician advises the inhalation of tobacco smoke for my asthmatic difficulties, I will join you.”  After a moment’s fumbling in a beaded bag that hung from her waist, she produced a small black clay pipe, filled it from the same receptacle, and lit it.

A thrill of surprise went round the company, and it was noticed that Prosper seemed equally confounded.  Nevertheless, this awkwardness was quickly overcome by the privilege and example given them, and with, a glass of whiskey and water before them, the men were speedily at their ease.  Nor did Mrs. Pottinger disdain to mingle in their desultory talk.  Sitting there with her black pipe in her mouth, but still precise and superior, she told a thrilling whaling adventure of Prosper’s father (drawn evidently from the experience of the lamented Pottinger), which not only deeply interested her hearers, but momentarily exalted Prosper in their minds as the son of that hero.  “Now you speak o’ that, ma’am,” said the ingenuous Wynbrook, “there’s a good deal o’ Prossy in that yarn o’ his father’s; same kind o’ keerless grit!  You remember, boys, that day the dam broke and he stood thar, the water up to his neck, heavin’ logs in the break till he stopped it.”  Briefly, the evening, in spite of its initial culinary failure and its surprises, was a decided social success, and even the bewildered and doubting Prosper went to bed relieved.  It was followed by many and more informal gatherings at the house, and Mrs Pottinger so far unbent—­if that term could be used of one who never altered her primness of manner—­as to join in a game of poker—­and even permitted herself to win.

But by the end of six weeks another change in their feelings towards Prosper seemed to creep insidiously over the camp.  He had been received into his former fellowship, and even the presence of his mother had become familiar, but he began to be an object of secret commiseration.  They still frequented the house, but among themselves afterwards they talked in whispers.  There was no doubt to them that Prosper’s old mother drank not only what her son had provided, but what she surreptitiously obtained from the saloon.  There was the testimony of the barkeeper, himself concerned equally with the camp in the integrity of the Riggs household.  And there was an even darker suspicion.  But this must be given in Joe Wynbrook’s own words:—­

“I didn’t mind the old woman winnin’ and winnin’ reg’lar—­for poker’s an unsartin game;—­it ain’t the money that we’re losin’—­for it’s all in the camp.  But when she’s developing a habit o’ holdin’ four aces when somebody else hez two, who don’t like to let on because it’s Prosper’s old mother—­it’s gettin’ rough!  And dangerous too, gentlemen, if there happened to be an outsider in, or one of the boys should kick.  Why, I saw Bilson grind his teeth—­he holdin’ a sequence flush—­ace high—­when the dear old critter laid down her reg’lar four aces and raked in the pile.  We had to nearly kick his legs off under the table afore he’d understand—­not havin’ an old mother himself.”