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“Hurray!” called Bob, who was in the lead. “There she is.” In the lofty, echoing rooms everything had been left undisturbed: the furniture with its silken upholstery, the mirrors reaching from floor to ceiling, the great paintings that filled the walls, and the art treasures, gathered from every corner of the world. Many of these tapestries and vases and statues were extremely rare, but to Johnny Blossom they were only queer, especially a certain Indian idol with an ugly face made of gold. Why should any one want that? Bob did not know what to say. Mr. Whitney had given him the feeling that for anyone who was really enthusiastic about the Service, the Service had room. But he thought he had better not be too encouraging. “Why don’t you come up and try? I’ll introduce you to the Boss.”.

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But when Bob started to thank Feather-in-the-Wind for finding out what he had, the Apache stopped him. “Wait! More!” he said. “One my young men got keen eyes. Not dimmed by white man’s whiskey. He see Miguel go away from camp one, two, t’ree nights. He take something with him. Young man no follow. No worry him much. Perhaps go to-night. You want us follow?” After his coat, Bob ripped off his flannel shirt and tore it down a seam. Then, with the greatest care, he began to unravel the threads that made up the fabric. The loose threads would burn when the cloth itself would only go out. Before he had a pile of threads that he felt would be sufficient for his purpose, his fingers ached and his nails were bleeding. Oh, they didn’t know anything about the trouble with Bob, and he didn’t dare to say a word about the racing or anything. “And leave the Service?” put in Bob. “I don’t see how you could. It’s the finest—”.