We clanked into the ante-room--that's what I call it, anyway. It
happened that I didn't stay around those police posts long enough to get
familiar with the technical terms for everything. Not that they wouldn't
have welcomed my presence; faith, their desire for my company was only
equaled by my reluctance to accept their hospitality. There was a while
when I developed a marvelous capacity for dodging invitations to Fort
Walsh. And if the men in scarlet had been a bit swifter, or I a little
slower, I'd have had ample leisure to observe life in the Force from the
inside--of the guardhouse. As I said, we went into the ante-room, and
there I got my first peep at the divinity that doth hedge--not a king,
but a commissioned officer in Her Majesty's N. W. M. P. An orderly held
us up, and when MacRae had convinced him that our business was urgent,
and not for his ears, he graciously allowed us to enter the
Presence--who proved to be a heavy-set person with sandy, mutton-chop
whiskers set bias on a vacuous, round, florid countenance. His
braid-trimmed uniform was cut to fit him like the skin of an exceedingly
well-stuffed sausage, and from his comfortable seat behind a flat-topped
desk he gazed upon us with the wisdom of a tree-full of owls and the
dignity of a stage emperor.

MacRae's heels clicked together and his right hand went up in the stiff
military salute. The red-faced one acknowledged it by a barely
perceptible flip of a fat paw, then put a little extra stiffening into
his spinal column and growled, in a voice that seemed to come booming up
from the region of his diaphragm, "Pro-ceed."

MacRae proceeded. But he didn't get very far. In fact, he'd barely
articulated, 'I have to report, sir, that----' when the human sausage
bethought himself of something more important, and held up one hand for