the floor of which the rugs were still rolled; through a dining-room and
into what was at once a small library and Gaynor's study; King noted
that even a telephone had found its way hither. A chair pulled forward,
a box of cigars offered, and the two friends took stock in each other's
eyes of what the last year had done for each.

"You look more fit than ever, Mark--and younger."

King wanted to say the same thing of his friend, but the words did not
come. Gaynor was by far the older man, King's senior by a score of
years, and obviously had begun to feel the burden of the latter greying
days. Or of cares flocking along with them; they generally come
together. His were seriously accepted responsibilities, where Mark
gathered unto himself fresh hopes and eager joys; the responsibilities
which come in the wake of wife and daughter; a home to be maintained in
the city, the necessity to adapt himself, even if stiffly, to unfamiliar
conditions. This big log house itself, it seemed to King, was carried on
the back of old Ben.

They had been friends together since King could remember, since Ben had
big-brothered him, carried him on his back, taught him to swim and
shoot. Then one year while King was off at school his friend took unto
himself a wife. This with no permission from Mark King; not even after a
conference with him; in fact, to his utter bewilderment. King did not so
much as know of the event until Gaynor, after a month of honeymooning,
remembered to drop him a brief note. The bald fact jarred; King was hurt
and grew angry and resentful with all of that unreason of a boy. He went
off to Alaska without a word to Gaynor.

With the passage of time the friends had again grown intimate, had been