Pete felt no surprise at this, only a queer sense of comfort at the touch of the dog's tongue on his hand. So they walked, side by side, along their homeward way.
When they reached the cabin, Pete lighted his lamp and gave the dog what scraps of food he could find. For himself there was nothing. But, strangely enough, the bitterness of his mood was gone. He even whistled softly to himself as he took off his coat and cap and threw them over a chair.
From the pockets and creases of his coat dirt fell in a shower. He stooped to brush it aside—then he stopped, amazed, not believing his eyes. Scattered here and there through the lumps of dirt were tiny particles of gold!
*****
A gray-haired man goes in and out of a house on one of San Francisco's hills. A woman waves greeting to him from the window. In the yard children play with a collie dog grown fat with years.
It is Peter Swanson, owner of "The Lucky Dog," a small mine, but exceedingly rich in its output. His neighbors know him as a kindly man, and generous to those who are down on their luck.
THROUGHOUT the whole term there had been fewer lines and impositions arising from dormitory irregularity than had been known throughout the whole modern history of Hailsham. It arose from no increase of virtue among the fellows themselves. On the contrary, dormitory feuds and raids as well as dormitory banquets had grown even more general than they had ever been before.
If any Hailsham fellow had been asked the reason of this welcome state of affairs he undoubtedly would have attributed it solely to Faversham's scouts. Faversham himself, the originator of this renowned body, had an elder brother, who, after several years' residence at the cape, had served his country throughout the late Boer War in the ranks of the National Scouts. The romance surrounding the elder brother's career had so impressed itself upon the younger Faversham that during the next term he instituted at Hailsham such an extensive system of sentinels and espionage as to reduce the danger of surprise visits, both to the authorities and of rival dormitories, to a minimum. The corps that bore his name did not wait long to establish its reputation.
It was at a somewhat extensive supper given by Bellingham in the large dormitory, when at an early hour in the morning, the festivities being then at their height, a strange figure quietly opened the door and casually announced that there was no possible need to hurry, but that things should be put quietly in their places, and that there should be a return to bed.
"I'll give you about three minutes, but don't fluster," he remarked—and vanished.
Some three or four minutes later, when the majority were emitting different notes from their nostrils to represent a snore, and four or five of the more restless were grumbling about false alarms, the door noiselessly opened, and Mr. Dunbrough himself, in stockinged feet, made a systematic perambulation of the room.
From that night the fame of the corps was established. Application for admission was made from all directions—and refused. Small stealthy figures, flitting by night silently along corridor and staircase, became a frequent sight to the sixth form fellows on patrol duty. In many a dormitory a door would open—causing some of its inmates to start round in fear of a surprise visit from a master, and others to seize their bolsters in dread of an advancing foe—only to reveal a small fellow with bare feet and trousers drawn over his nightshirt. Upon his breast would be a large red S painted on a piece of paper. This badge was his security. Fellows recognized that he formed their protection against their common foe—the authorities—in their prohibited amusements, and he came and went peacefully, and at will.
The sixth-formers at first were chary of allowing these midnight wanderers, but, finding
