The Highgrader | Page 4

want a full bill of particulars, Steve. You go back and size up the
eyes of the lady lord and the other female Britishers," ordered Curly
gayly.
"Go yore own self, kid. I ain't roundin' up trouble for no babe just out
of the cradle," retorted the grinning rider. "What's yore hurry,
Crumbs?"
The young man addressed had started away but now turned. "No hurry,
I reckon, but I'm going fishing."
Steve chuckled. "You're headed in a bee line for Old Man Trouble. The
Johnnie boy up at the Lodge is plumb sore on this outfit. Seems that
you lads raised ructions last night and broken his sweet slumbers. He's
got the kick of a government mule coming. Why can't you wild Injuns
behave proper?"
"We only gave Curly a chapping because he let the flapjacks burn,"
returned Crumbs with a smile. "You see, he's come of age most, Curly

has. He'd ought to be responsible now, but he ain't. So we gave him
what was coming to him."
"Well, you explain that to Mr. Verinder if he sees you. He's sure on his
hind laigs about it."
"I expect he'll get over it in time," Crumbs said dryly. "Well, so-long,
boys. Good fishing to-night."
"Same to you," they called after him.
"Some man, Crumbs," commented Steve.
"He'll stand the acid," agreed Colter briefly.
"What's his last name? I ain't heard you lads call him anything but
Crumbs. I reckon that's a nickname."
Curly answered the question of the cowpuncher. "His name 's
Kilmeny--Jack Kilmeny. His folks used to live across the water. Maybe
this Honorable Miss Kilmeny and her brother are some kin of his."
"You don't say!"
"Course I don't know about that. His dad came over here when he was a
wild young colt. Got into some trouble at home, the way I heard it.
Bought a ranch out here and married. His family was high moguls in
England--or, maybe, it was Ireland. Anyhow, they didn't like Mrs.
Kilmeny from the Bar Double C ranch. Ain't that the way of it, Colter?"
The impassive gaze of the older man came back from the rushing river.
"You know so much about it, Curly, I'll not butt in with any more
misinformation," he answered with obvious sarcasm.
Curly flushed. "I'd ought to know. Jack's father and mine were friends,
so's he and me."
"How come you to call him Crumbs?"

"That's a joke, Steve. Jack's no ordinary rip-roaring, hell-raisin' miner.
He knows what's what. That's why we call him Crumbs--because he's
fine bred. Pun, see. Fine bred--crumbs. Get it?"
"Sure I get it, kid. I ain't no Englishman. You don't need a two-by-four
to pound a josh into my cocoanut," the rider remonstrated.
CHAPTER II
MR. VERINDER COMPLAINS
Jack Kilmeny followed the pathway which wound through the woods
along the bank of the river. Occasionally he pushed through a thick
growth of young willows or ducked beneath the top strand of a
neglected wire fence.
Beyond the trees lay a clearing. At the back of this, facing the river,
was a large fishing lodge built of logs and finished artistically in rustic
style. It was a two-story building spread over a good deal of ground
space. A wide porch ran round the front and both sides. Upon the porch
were a man in an armchair and a girl seated on the top step with her
head against the corner post.
A voice hailed Kilmeny. "I say, my man."
The fisherman turned, discovered that he was the party addressed, and
waited.
"Come here, you!" The man in the armchair had taken the cigar from
his mouth and was beckoning to him.
"Meaning me?" inquired Kilmeny.
"Of course I mean you. Who else could I mean?"
The fisherman drew near. In his eyes sparkled a light that belied his
acquiescence.

"Do you belong to the party camped below?" inquired he of the rocking
chair, one eyeglass fixed in the complacent face.
The guilty man confessed.
"Then I want to know what the deuce you meant by kicking up such an
infernal row last night. I couldn't sleep a wink for hours--not for hours,
dash it. It's an outrage--a beastly outrage. What!"
The man with the monocle was smug with the self-satisfaction of his
tribe. His thin hair was parted in the middle and a faint straw-colored
mustache decorated his upper lip. Altogether, he might measure five
feet five in his boots. The miner looked at him gravely. No faintest hint
of humor came into the sea-blue eyes. They took in the dapper Britisher
as if he had been a natural history specimen.
"So kindly tell them not to do it again," Dobyans Verinder ordered in
conclusion.
"If you please, sir," added the young woman quietly.
Kilmeny's steady gaze passed for the first time to