Whatever was his present financial condition, in perfect self-possession and charming sang-froid he fully bore out his previous description.  He was as clean and refreshing looking as a madrono-tree in the dust-blown forest.  An odor of scented soap and freshly ironed linen was wafted from him; there was scarcely a crease in his white waistcoat, nor a speck upon his varnished shoes.  He might have been an auditor of the previous conversation, so quickly and completely did he seem to take in the whole situation at a glance.  Perhaps there was an extra tilt to his black-ribboned Panama hat, and a certain dancing devilry in his brown eyes—­which might also have been an answer to adverse criticism.

“When I, his truth to prove, would trifle with my love,” he warbled in general continuance from the doorway.  Then dropping cheerfully into speech, he added, “Well, boys, I am here to welcome the little stranger, and to trust that the family are doing as well as can be expected.  Ah! there it is!  Bless it!” he went on, walking leisurely to the treasure.  “Triplets, too!—­and plump at that.  Have you had ’em weighed?”

Frankness was an essential quality of Heavy Tree Hill.  “We were just saying, Jack,” said an old locator, “that, giving you a fair show and your own game, you could manage to get away with that pile before daybreak.”

“And I’m just thinking,” said Jack cheerfully, “that there were some of you here that could do that without any such useless preliminary.”  His brown eyes rested for a moment on Steptoe, but turning quite abruptly to Van Loo, he held out his hand.  Startled and embarrassed before the others, the young man at last advanced his, when Jack coolly put his own, as if forgetfully, in his pocket.  “I thought you might like to know what that little brother of yours is doing,” he said to Van Loo, yet looking at Steptoe.  “I found him wandering about the Hill here quite drunk.”

“I have repeatedly warned him”—­began Van Loo, reddening.

“Against bad company—­I know,” suggested Jack gayly; “yet in spite of all that, I think he owes some of his liquor to Steptoe yonder.”

“I never supposed the fool would get drunk over a glass of whiskey offered in fun,” said Steptoe harshly, yet evidently quite as much disconcerted as angry.

“The trouble with Steptoe,” said Hamlin, thoughtfully spanning his slim waist with both hands as he looked down at his polished shoes, “is that he has such a soft-hearted liking for all weaknesses.  Always wanting to protect chaps that can’t look after themselves, whether it’s Whiskey Dick there when he has a pull on, or some nigger when he’s made a little strike, or that straying lamb of Van Loo’s when he’s puppy drunk.  But you’re wrong about me, boys.  You can’t draw me in any game to-night.  This is one of my nights off, which I devote exclusively to contemplation and song.  But,” he added, suddenly turning to his three hosts with a bewildering and fascinating