responsibility. I refused to think it out.

Within a fortnight we were thinking it out with some intentness. The
Noble Seven were to have a great "blow-out" at the Hill brothers' ranch.
The Duke had got home from his southern trip a little more weary-looking
and a little more cynical in his smile. The "blow-out" was to be held
on Permit Sunday, the alternate to the Preaching Sunday, which was a
concession to The Pilot, secured chiefly through the influence of Hi
and his baseball nine. It was something to have created the situation
involved in the distinction between Preaching and Permit Sundays. Hi put
it rather graphically. "The devil takes his innin's one Sunday and The
Pilot the next," adding emphatically, "He hain't done much scorin'
yit, but my money's on The Pilot, you bet!" Bill was more cautious and
preferred to wait developments. And developments were rapid.

The Hill brothers' meet was unusually successful from a social point
of view. Several Permits had been requisitioned, and whisky and beer
abounded. Races all day and poker all night and drinks of various brews
both day and night, with varying impromptu diversions--such as shooting
the horns off wandering steers--were the social amenities indulged in by
the noble company. On Monday evening I rode out to the ranch, urged by
Moore, who was anxious that someone should look after Bruce.

"I don't belong to them," he said, "you do. They won't resent your
coming."

Nor did they. They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout.

"Hello, old domine!" yelled Bruce, "where's your preacher friend?"