“You been in a scrap?” asked Grayson.  “Who with?”

“A party of Pesita’s men,” replied Bridge.

“When?”

“Yesterday.”

“You see they are working pretty close,” said Grayson, to his employer, and then to Bridge:  “Well, if you took that cayuse from one of Pesita’s bunch you can’t call that stealin’.  Your room’s in there, back of the office, an’ you’ll find some clothes there that the last man forgot to take with him.  You ken have ’em, an’ from the looks o’ yourn you need ’em.”

“Thank you,” replied Bridge.  “My clothes are a bit rusty.  I shall have to speak to James about them,” and he passed through into the little bedroom off the office, and closed the door behind him.

“James?” grunted Grayson.  “Who the devil does he mean by James?  I hain’t seen but one of ’em.”

The boss was laughing quietly.

“The man’s a character,” he said.  “He’ll be worth all you pay him—­if you can appreciate him, which I doubt, Grayson.”

“I ken appreciate him if he ken keep books,” replied Grayson.  “That’s all I ask of him.”

When Bridge emerged from the bedroom he was clothed in white duck trousers, a soft shirt, and a pair of tennis shoes, and such a change had they wrought in his appearance that neither Grayson nor his employer would have known him had they not seen him come from the room into which they had sent him to make the exchange of clothing.

“Feel better?” asked the boss, smiling.

“Clothes are but an incident with me,” replied Bridge.  “I wear them because it is easier to do so than it would be to dodge the weather and the police.  Whatever I may have upon my back affects in no way what I have within my head.  No, I cannot say that I feel any better, since these clothes are not as comfortable as my old ones.  However if it pleases Mr. Grayson that I should wear a pink kimono while working for him I shall gladly wear a pink kimono.  What shall I do first, sir?” The question was directed toward Grayson.

“Sit down here an’ see what you ken make of this bunch of trouble,” replied the foreman.  “I’ll talk with you again this evenin’.”

As Grayson and his employer quitted the office and walked together toward the corrals the latter’s brow was corrugated by thought and his facial expression that of one who labors to fasten upon a baffling and illusive recollection.

“It beats all, Grayson,” he said presently; “but I am sure that I have known this new bookkeeper of yours before.  The moment he came out of that room dressed like a human being I knew that I had known him; but for the life of me I can’t place him.  I should be willing to wager considerable, however, that his name is not Bridge.”

“S’pect you’re right,” assented Grayson.  “He’s probably one o’ them eastern dude bank clerks what’s gone wrong and come down here to hide.  Mighty fine place to hide jest now, too.