“Letty figgers that somebody tossed that goldsack over the top of the cage after you follered the Count out.”

“Impossible,” Pierce declared.

“I got an idea.”  It was Broad speaking again.  “The mere contemplation of physical violence unmans that Frog.  He’d about as soon have a beatin’ as have a leg cut off with a case-knife.  S’pose me and the Kid lure him to some lonely spot—­some good yellin’-place—­and set upon him with a coupla pick-handles.  We’ll make him confess or we’ll maim and meller him till he backs out through his bootlegs.  What d’you say?”

Pierce shook his head.  “Something must be done, but I doubt if that’s it.  It’s tough to be—­disgraced, to have a thing like this hanging over you.  I wouldn’t mind it half so much if I were up for murder or arson or any man’s-sized crime.  Anything except stealing!”

“A mere matter of choice,” the former speaker lightly declared.  “We got boys around the Rialto that has tried ’em all.  They don’t notice no particular difference.”

For some time the three friends discussed the situation, then, when his visitors rose to go, Pierce accompanied them to the limits of the Barracks premises and there stood looking after them, realizing with a fresh pang that he was a prisoner.  It was an unfortunate predicament, he reflected, and quite as unpleasant as the one which had brought him into conflict with the angry men of Sheep Camp.  That had been an experience fraught with peril, but his present plight was little better, it seemed to him, for already he felt the weight of the Dominion over him, already he fancied himself enmeshed in a discouraging tangle of red tape.  There was no adventurous thrill to this affair, nothing but an odious feeling of shame and disgrace which he could not shake off.

He was staring morosely at the ground between his feet when he heard a voice that caused him to start.  There, facing him with a light of pleasure in her blue eyes, was the girl of the skees.

“Hello!” said she.  She extended her hand, and her mitten closed over Pierce’s fingers with a firm clasp.  “I’m awfully glad to see you again, Mr—­” She hesitated, then with a smile confessed, “Do you know, you’re my only pupil and yet I’ve never heard your name.”

“Phillips,” said he.

“You don’t deserve to be remembered at all, for you didn’t come to the dance.  And after you had promised, too.”

“I couldn’t come,” he assured her, truthfully enough.

“I looked for you.  I was quite hurt when you failed to appear.  Then I thought perhaps you expected something more formal than a mere verbal invitation, and in that way I managed to save my vanity.  If I’d known who you were or how to find you I’d have had my father send you a note.  If it wasn’t that, I’m glad.  Well, there’s another dance this week and I’ll expect you.”

“I—­I’m not dancing,” he stammered.  “Not at the Barracks, anyhow.”