read it to you to-morrow. I wasn't surprised. There are pretty
women down in Porto Rico. But I didn't think you'd have the nerve
to discover one up here--in the wilderness."

"She's got them all beat," retorted the artist, flecking the ash
from the tip of his cigarette.

"Even the Valencia girl, eh?"

There was a chuckling note of pleasure in Philip Whittemore's
voice as he leaned half across the table, his handsome face,
bronzed by snow and wind, illumined in the lamp-glow. Gregson, in
strong contrast, with his round, smooth cheeks, slim hands, and
build that was almost womanish, leaned over his side to meet him.
For the twentieth time that evening the two men shook hands.

"Haven't forgotten Valencia, eh?" chuckled the artist, gloatingly.
"Lord, but I'm glad to see you again, Phil. Seems like a century
since we were out raising the Old Ned together, and yet it's less
than three years since we came back from South America. Valencia!
Will we ever forget it? When Burke handed me his first turn-down a
month ago and said, 'Tom, your work begins to show you want a
rest,' I thought of Valencia, and was so confoundedly homesick for
those old days when you and I pretty nearly started a revolution,
and came within an ace of getting our scalps lifted, that I moped
for a week. Gad, do I remember it? You got out by fighting, and I
through a pretty girl."

"And your nerve," chuckled Whittemore, crushing the other's hand.
"That was when I made up my mind you were the nerviest man alive,