newspaper and argued craftily in taverns; and the styles and titles
of great landowners by whose estates they passed; and how to avoid
the nets that were perpetually spread by a predatory sex before the
feet of the incautious male. On the last point Barney Bill was
eloquent; but Paul, with delicious memories sanctifying his young
soul, turned a deaf ear to his misogyny. Barney Bill was very old
and crooked and dried up; what beautiful lady would waste her
blandishments on him? Even the low-born lasses with whom they at
times consorted had scarce an eye for Barney Bill. The grapes were
sour. Paul smiled indulgently on the little foible of his friend.

They jogged along the highroad on this blazing and dusty day. Their
bower of wicker chairs crackled in the heat. It was too hot for
sustained conversation. Once Barney Bill said: "If Bob"-Bob was the
old horse's unimaginative name--"if Bob doesn't have a drink soon
his darned old hide'll crack."

Ten minutes later: "Nothing under a quart'll wash down this dust."

"Have a drink of water," suggested Paul, who had already adopted
this care for drouth, with satisfactory results.

"A grown man's thirst and a boy's thirst is two entirely different
things," said Barney Bill sententiously. "To spoil this grown-up
thirst of mine with water would be a crime."

A mile or so farther on the road he stretched out a lean brown arm
and pointed. "See that there clump of trees? Behind that is the
Little Bear Inn. They gives you cool china pots with blue round the
edge. You can only have 'em if you asks for 'em, Jim Blake, the