’Poleon was soaring as only his free soul could soar; he indicated the tent at his back, whence issued the sound of Rouletta Kirby’s ceaseless murmurings.

“Dis gal—­she’s tiny snowbird wit’ broken wing.  Bien!  I fix her wing de bes’ I can.  I mak’ her well an’ I teach her to fly again.  Dat’s all.”  Broad and Bridges had listened attentively, their faces impassive.  Lucky was the first to speak.

“Letty’s a good girl, y’understand.  She’s different to these others—­”

‘Poleon interrupted with a gesture of impatience.  “It ain’t mak’ no difference if she’s good or bad.  She’s seeck.”

“Me ‘n’ the Kid have done some heavy thinkin’, an’ we’d about decided to get a high stool and take turns lookin’ out Letty’s game, just to see that her bets went as they laid, but I got a hunch you’re a square guy.  What d’you think, Kid?”

Mr. Bridges nodded his head slowly.  “I got the same hunch.  The point is this,” he explained.  “We can’t very well throw the Countess—­we got some of her outfit—­and, anyhow, we’d be about as handy around an invalid as a coupla cub bears.  I think we’ll bow out.  But, Frenchy”—­the gambler spoke with intense earnestness—­ “if ever we hear a kick from that gal we’ll—­we’ll foller you like a track.  Won’t we, Lucky?”

“We’ll foller him to hell!” Mr. Broad feelingly declared.

Gravely, ceremoniously, the callers shook hands with Doret, then they returned whence they had come.  They went their way; Rouletta’s delirium continued; ’Poleon’s problem increased daily; meanwhile, however, the life of the North did not slacken a single pulse-beat.

Never since their earliest associations had Tom Linton and Jerry Quirk found themselves in such absolute accord, in such complete harmony of understanding, as during the days that immediately followed their reconciliation.  Each man undertook to outdo the other in politeness; each man forced himself to be considerate, and strove at whatever expense to himself to lighten the other’s burdens; all of their relations were characterized by an elaborate, an almost mid-Victorian courtesy.  A friendly rivalry in self-sacrifice existed between them; they quarreled good-naturedly over the dish-washing, that disgusting rite which tries the patience of every grown man; when there was wood to be cut they battled with each other for the ax.

But there is a limit to politeness; unfailing sunshine grows tedious, and so does a monotonous exercise of magnanimity.

While it had been an easy matter to cut their rowboat in two, the process of splicing it together again had required patience and ingenuity, and it had resulted in delay.  By the time they arrived at Miles Canon, therefore, the season was far advanced and both men, without knowing it, were in a condition of mind to welcome any sort of a squall that would serve to freshen the unbearably stagnant atmosphere of amiability in which they were slowly suffocating.