Hal, always gracious and kindly, seemed more so than ever to-night,
evidently trying to make up for his roommate's moroseness by his own
geniality. He showed Shag his treasures, his collection of curiosities,
his two lynx-skin rugs--animals shot by his father years before--his pet
books, and finally came to his photographs.

"This is a splendid one of father," he said enthusiastically; "it was
taken when he was a young man surveying out West before they put the
railroad through. That group of men to the left are axe-men. It should
interest you, for Professor Warwick told me you came here to study
surveying."

"Yes," said Shag, "that is my chosen work."

"Then," continued Hal, "that splendid-looking chap on father's right
was his guide and personal cook--the one in the blanket coat and sash.
He was part French but mostly Indian, I fancy--Why, what's the matter,
Larocque?" for Shag had suddenly made some inarticulate exclamation,
and had carried the photograph nearer the light.

"That is my father," he said quietly. As he spoke the words he was well
aware that they might tell against him some time or other. He knew
enough of the civilization of the white people to understand that when
two boys attend the same school, one with a titled father and the other
with a father who had cooked for the titled one, that things are apt to
become strained; but never for one second did he hesitate about claiming
the Red River trapper as his sire. He would have despised himself far
more than any boy in the school could possibly do now, had he failed to
say the words, "That is my father." The attitude of his three listeners