of the bobbing boxes and the smile froze into a look of horror. On it was
painted that ominous word--DYNAMITE!

Two men were coming behind her.

"Six horses, a wagon an' old Fritz--blown to hell an' not a splinter left
to tell the story," one of them was saying. "I was there three minutes
after the explosion and there wasn't even a ravelling or a horsehair left.
This dynamite's a dam' funny thing. I wouldn't be a rock-hog for a
million!"

"I'd rather be a rock-hog than Joe--drivin' down this hill a dozen times a
day," replied the other.

The girl had paused again, and the two men stared at her as they were about
to pass. The explosion of Joe's dynamite could not have startled them more
than the beauty of the face that was turned to them in a quietly appealing
inquiry.

"I am looking for a place called--Bill's Shack," she said, speaking the
Little Sister's words hesitatingly. "Can you direct me to it, please?"

The younger of the two men looked at his companion without speaking. The
other, old enough to regard feminine beauty as a trap and an illusion,
turned aside to empty his mouth of a quid of tobacco, bent over, and
pointed under the trees.

"Can't miss it--third tent-house on your right, with canvas striped like a
barber-pole. That phonnygraff you hear is at Bill's."