The only thing that caused the young superintendent any real anxiety, and one he had tried in vain to stop—was the sale of liquor to his men at Morrison\'s. When pay-day came half of his gang were invariably absent for several days, including even his trustworthy and ever-to-be-relied-upon Freme Skinner, the Clown.

Holcomb had reasoned with Freme and had threatened him with discharge a dozen times, his example being a bad one for the French Canadians under his immediate care. As a last resort he had taken Belle Pollard, Freme\'s sweetheart, a waitress at Morrison\'s, into his confidence. If Belle could keep Freme sober over Sunday—it was impossible to keep him away from her—Holcomb would speak a good word to Thayor for Freme and Belle and then they could both get a place as caretakers of the house during the coming winter, be married in the fall and so live happy ever after.

The girl promised, and the next Saturday the test came.

"If Freme will let liquor alone," he had written to Thayor the day these final arrangements were completed, "you couldn\'t have a better man or a better girl, but I\'m afraid we\'ll have to move Bill Morrison\'s bar-room into Canada to accomplish it."

The result of this bargain Holcomb learned from the girl herself as she sat in his cabin, the glow of a swinging lamp lighting up her face.

On Saturday night, as usual, so Belle said, the Clown, his wages in his pocket, had sat in one corner of Morrison\'s bar-room, the heels of his red-socked feet clutched in the rung of his chair. A moment before there had been a good-natured, rough-and-tumble wrestle as he and another lumber jack grappled. The Clown had thrown his antagonist fairly, the lumberjack\'s shoulders striking the rough floor with a whack that made things jingle. The next moment the two had treated one another at the bar, and with a mutual, though maudlin appreciation of each other had gone back to their respective chairs among the line tilted against the wall.

At that moment she had opened the bar-room door and announced supper. Instantaneously the front legs of the line of tilted chairs came to the floor with a bang. The Clown reached the girl and the half-open door first.

"Blast you, Freme Skinner," she said, "be you a-goin\' in or out?"

"Wall, I swow, Belle," remarked the Clown, steadying himself and turning his bleary eyes on the closed door, "you be techier \'n a sp\'ilt colt, ain\'t ye?"

Soon the long table was filled by the hungry crowd. They sat heavily in their chairs, their coats off, their hair slicked down for the occasion. The Clown was seated at one end of the table, nearest the swing door leading to the kitchen. He wore a red undershirt, cut low about his bull neck. It was Belle\'s ring that dangled from one ear. Loosing the strap about his waist he began to sing:

  "My gal has a bright blue eye,
    And she steps like a fox in the snow;
  And a thousand miles I\'d tra-vel
    To find her other beau."

Then in crescendo:

"She used to live in Stove-pipe City—"

Here the girl kicked the swing door and appeared with the first assortment of bird dishes.

"Here, boys, you\'ll kinder have to sort \'em out for yerselves," she laughed, her eager eyes watching the Clown.

Freme started in again, unconscious of the girl\'s anxiety—too drunk to notice anything in fact:

"She used to live in Stove-pipe—"

He stopped short and looked at the girl with a half-drunken leer, then wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his red shirt.

"Ham an\' eggs, fried pork, tea or coffee, mince or apple pie," rattled the girl, holding the dishes under Freme\'s nose.

Skinner leaned back, tried to fix his gaze upon her, lurched in his chair and slid heavily to the floor. Such breaches of etiquette were not infrequent occurrences at Morrison\'s.

The men filed out, crowding around the red-hot stove in the bar-room. When Belle burst in again to clear the table, the Clown lay snoring flat on his back.

By daylight Monday morning Morrison\'s hotel held but a single guest—the rest, penniless by Sunday night, had gone back to work. The Clown, with a dollar still in his pocket, remained. When the others had gone he came down softly in his sock feet from his room and drew up a chair to the stove in the stagnant and deserted bar-room. The room had not yet been either swept or aired. Then he rose, opened the door leading to the porch and let in the tingling frosty air and the sunlight. For a long time he played with the kitten under the stove, but he did not take a drink. He had promised Belle that he would not, and she had kissed him as a reward. A new light shone in the girl\'s eyes as she busied herself with the dishes in the kitchen beyond the bar-room—now and then she sang to herself the refrain of a popular song. Finally she opened the door of the kitchen and entered the bar-room. The next moment the Clown placed his great paw of a hand about her slim waist.

"I hain\'t took no drink," he said shakily, with an embarrassed laugh.

She looked up at him.

"I knowed you wouldn\'t, Freme," she answered searching his blood-shot blue eyes. "You promised, Freme, and—you know I\'ll marry ye," she said, "jest as I said I would if ye\'ll only keep to what ye promised. I guess we kin be as happy as most folks," she added, smiling bravely through tears.

"Thar ain\'t no guessin\' \'bout it, Belle. Thar—you needn\'t cry \'bout it," he replied.

"You was awful drunk, Freme," she went on. "There warn\'t no one could handle ye \'cept me. They was tryin\' to get ye upstairs and to bed, but ye was uglier \'n sin."

"Pshaw—I want to know," drawled the giant sheepishly. "Didn\'t none git hurted, did they?"

"None \'cept Ed Munsey; ye throwed him downstairs."

"Ed ain\'t hurted, be he?" he asked in alarm.

"His shoulder was swelled bad when he come back to work," she confessed. She nodded to the door behind the bar and the splinters sticking through its panel.

"Gosh all whimey!" he exclaimed; "who done that?"

"You done it, Freme; you was crazy drunk. There warn\'t none of \'em could handle you \'cept me, I tell ye. I spoke to ye and ye come \'long with me back inter the kitchen and set there lookin\' at me strange-like for most an hour. Arter I got my dishes washed I took ye up to the little room at the end of the hall."

The Clown scratched his head as if trying to remember.

"Warn\'t it Ed that throwed that buffalo hide over me?" he asked after a moment of useless research.

"No," she said, "I wouldn\'t let one of \'em tech ye."

"And do you think he\'ll keep his promise, Belle?" asked Holcomb, when she had finished the story.

"I dunno. He will if I kin stay \'longside of him. But if he don\'t he\'s got to git along without me. He says he loves me better \'n liquor, and I guess maybe he does."

The following night Freme swung into the forest and took the short cut to Big Shanty,............