“Pipe de swag!” He of the frock coat, golf cap, and years waved a conciliatory hand. He tried to look at the boy's face; but for the life of him he couldn't raise his eyes above the dazzling wealth clutched in the fingers of those two small, slim hands. From one dangled a pearl necklace which alone might have ransomed, if not a king, at least a lesser member of a royal family, while diamonds, rubies, sapphires, and emeralds scintillated in the flaring light of the fire. Nor was the fistful of currency in the other hand to be sneezed at. There were greenbacks, it is true; but there were also yellowbacks with the reddish gold of large denominations. The Sky Pilot sighed a sigh that was more than half gasp.     

       “Can't yuh take a kid?” he inquired. “I knew youse all along. Yuh can't fool an old bird like The Sky Pilot—eh, boys?” and he turned to his comrades for confirmation.     

       “He's The Oskaloosa Kid,” exclaimed one of the company. “I'd know 'im anywheres.”      

       “Pull up and set down,” invited another.     

       The boy stuffed his loot back into his pockets and came closer to the       fire. Its warmth felt most comfortable, for the Spring night was growing chill. He looked about him at the motley company, some half-spruce in clothing that suggested a Kuppenmarx label and a not too far association with a tailor's goose, others in rags, all but one unshaven and all more or less dirty—for the open road is close to Nature, which is principally dirt.     

       “Shake hands with Dopey Charlie,” said The Sky Pilot, whose age and corpulency appeared to stamp him with the hall mark of authority. The youth did as he was bid, smiling into the sullen, chalk-white face and taking the clammy hand extended toward him. Was it a shudder that passed through the lithe, young figure or was it merely a subconscious recognition of the final passing of the bodily cold before the glowing warmth of the blaze? “And Soup Face,” continued The Sky Pilot. A battered wreck half rose and extended a pudgy hand. Red whiskers, matted in little tangled wisps which suggested the dried ingredients of an infinite procession of semi-liquid refreshments, rioted promiscuously over a scarlet countenance.     

       “Pleased to meetcha,” sprayed Soup Face. It was a strained smile which twisted the rather 

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