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They were at the dripping roadside tank and back in a trice. Gently where a moment before he had been ferocious with anger, Billy wiped his play-mate’s face, or rather, changed the mud from one spot to another, got him to his feet again, and finally into the buggy with the little girls by his side. “Easy, mates. Kids, belay there, till we launch her!” This to the gaping youngsters always in the way. “Gosh!” he exclaimed, as Isobel closed on the last startlingly unexpected note, “that’s where some feller planks his strawr hat on a beauty butterfly!”.

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After these followed Jean as Rain. Wherever she passed the singers bowed their heads and sang more softly, and Frost retreated in haste. “We’ll play there’s a strike in the saw-mills, Dutchy, and this is scab labor,” Billy excused amiably. And for a fact the white cotton string carried the messages quite safely from the “Front,” where Jimmy and George laid out the “line” over wonderful grades, across impossible gorges; and “wired” back for further orders. Harry Potter was the operator at the “Front,” and Vilette,—“Women do operate, you know,” she said,—Vilette was the proud holder of “the key” at Headquarters, where Clarence Hammond strutted around as Messenger; and because he was the “son of the Boss,” bullied his Cousin Harry unmercifully. Jean hid a queer little smile that she could not repress. “All this turnin’ is good for the liver too you know,” she continued, as her son’s vinegary expression remained unaltered..