was certainly a study. Cop Billings stood staring at him for a moment,
then said, "Well, if your dad did cook he gets you far better shirts
and socks than mine does me." Shorty Magee uttered the four words,
"Cooked for Sir George!" and with an ugly sneer turned again to his
letter-writing.

Hal Bennington had sprung forward, tossing his arms about the Indian's
shoulders and exclaiming, "Your father! Is French Pete your father? Oh,
I'm so glad! Father will be delighted when I tell him. I have heard him
say a hundred times that he would never have lived to be 'Sir' George if
it hadn't been for French Pete."

"Yes, they call my father French Pete because, although he is nearly all
Indian, he speaks French so well," announced Shag.

Then followed a narration of two occasions when Shag's father had saved
Sir George's life, once from drowning in the Assiniboine and once from
freezing to death on the plains. The recreation interval was all too
short for the boys to have their talk out, and when the "good-nights"
came Hal wrung Shag's hand with a sincerity and heartiness that brought
a responsive thrill into the fingers of the lonely boy who was spending
his first night fifteen hundred miles away from home.

"Well," snorted Shorty, as the two boys left for the night, "going to
chum around with the son of your father's cook, are you?"

Hal whirled on his heel, his hand clenched, his knuckles standing out
white and bony; then he checked the torrent of words that sprang to his
lips and answered quietly, "Yes, I am."