"We're the very deuce for independence down our way."

   "Yes, indeed, sir. I was awfully sorry to hear about the trouble you got in at college; but, if you don't mind my saying so now, you boys were going it a little that night."

   "Going it? What night? There were several."

   "The red-fire night. You tipped me ten for that dinner."

   "Did I? I hope you have it yet, Mr.—"

   "James Wilkins, sir. Did you see Mr. Thorpe and Mr. Culver as you passed through San Francisco?"

   "I did. How did you happen to know that I knew them?"

   "I remember that they were chums of yours at college. We heard lots of college gossip at St. Dunstan's. I called on them in San Francisco, and Mr. Thorpe got me half-fare rates here. I've opened a restaurant here, and am doing a good business. Some of the officers who knew me at the St. Dunstan kind of made my place fashionable. Lieutenant Sommers, of the cavalry, won't dine anywhere else."

   "Sommers? I expected to find him here."

   "He's just gone out with an expedition. He told me that you'd be along, and that I was to see that you didn't starve. I've named my place the St. Dunstan, and I'd like you to call there—I remember your favorite dishes."

   "That's very decent of you."

   Mr. Wilkins looked frequently toward the entrance, with seeming anxiety. "I wish the proprietor of this place would come in," he said at last. "Lieutenant Sommers left me a check on this house for a hundred—Mr. Sommers roomed here, and left his money with the office. I need the cash to pay a carpenter who has built an addition for me. Kind of funny to be worth not a cent less than five thousand gold, in stock and good will, and be pushed for a hundred cash."

   "If you've Mr. Sommers' check, I'll let you have the money—for St. Dunstan's sake."

   "If you could? Of course, you know the lieutenant's signature?"

   "As well as my own. Quite right. Here you are. Where is your restaurant?"

   "You cross the Lunette, turn toward the bay—ask anybody. Hope to see 

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