much about Wint until Jack appeared; but the sight of Jack reminded him of Wint; and so he asked: “Where is Wint, anyway?”

Jack looked to right and left. “I don’t know,” he said. Gergue drawled: “It’s your job to know.” “I know it is. But--he got away from me.” “Got away from you?” “Yes. Last night. I couldn’t stop him.” Gergue frowned and ran his fingers through his back hair. “It was your job to stop him.” Jack threw out his hands. “You never saw him when he’s going good.” Peter nodded and spat. “No,” he said slowly. “No--that’s right. Where d’you say you left him?”

Routt shook his head. “I wish I knew. He dodged me....” Gergue shook his head. “Go along. Don’t let ’em see you talking--too much.” As the afternoon passed and especially after that final two hours of scurry and effort began, the inquiries for Wint increased in volume. But at six o’clock Wint was still listed as missing, and he was still missing at eight, and he was still missing when the count of the ballots was completed. But fifteen minutes later, Skinny Marsh, a man without visible means of support, met V. R. Kite on the street and drew him into the dark mouth of an alleyway.

“Kite,” he said huskily, “I got something to tell you.” “What is it?” V. R. asked crisply. “You know where Wint is?” “No. Do you?” “Yes.” Kite was interested enough now. “Where?”

Marsh told him; and ten seconds later, Kite was walking briskly up the street, gathering his clans. In the valley on the northeast side of Hardiston, there is a network of railway tracks, the freight and coal yards of the D. T. & I. Acres of ground are covered with slack, deposited through many years, and sprinkled over with the cinders from a thousand puffing engines. This is low land. At one spot, a stagnant pool forms every year, and furnishes some ragged skating for the children of the locality. The ice factory is on a hill above this pool. At the other end of the yards, there is a gaunt and ruined brick structure that was once a nail mill; and this mill gives its name to the section.

Across the tracks, there are half a dozen streets, lined for the most part with well-kept little cottages of workingmen. But in one street there is a larger structure that was once a hotel. This hotel is called the Weaver House. It fronts on the street, is flanked on one side by a railway track, and is backed by the creek whose muddy waters lap its sills at flood time. This was, in its days of glory, a railroad hotel, catering to the train crews in the days before the roads frowned on drink among the men. When the road 

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