A river-driver at the door said in a deep voice: "By the holy! yes, you
can trust us."

"Thank you kindly. . . . If it doesn't make any difference to the
rest, I'd like to be alone with The Padre for a little--not for religion,
you understand, for I go as I stayed, and I hev my views,--but for
private business."

Slowly, awkwardly, the few river-drivers passed out--Devlin and Mrs.
Falchion and Ruth and I with them--for I could do nothing now for him--he
was broken all to pieces. Roscoe told me afterwards what happened then.

"Padre," he said to Roscoe, "are we alone?"

"Quite alone, Phil."

"Well, I hevn't any crime to tell, and the business isn't weighty; but I
hev a pal at Danger Mountain--" He paused.

"Yes, Phil?"

"He's low down in s'ciety; but he's square, and we've had the same
blanket for many a day together. I crossed him first on the Panama
level. I was broke--stony broke. He'd been shipwrecked, and was ditto.
He'd been in the South Seas; I in Nicaragua. We travelled up through
Mexico and Arizona, and then through California to the Canadian Rockies.
At last we camped at Danger Mountain, a Hudson's Bay fort, and stayed
there. It was a roughish spot, but we didn't mind that. Every place
isn't Viking. One night we had a difference--not a quarrel, mind you,