"Yes, yes." Parson Tom's interest made him impatient.
"Well, you remember that Mansell went with Jim when he set out for the Yukon. They intended to try their luck together. Partners, of course. Well, Mansell wrote Dawson he was sick to death of worrying things out up there. He said he'd left Jim, but did not state why. He asked him if my mill was going strong, and would there be a job for him if he came back. He said that Jim was making money now. He had joined a man named Broncho Bill, a pretty hard citizen, and in consequence he was doing better. How he was making money he didn't say. But he finished up his remarks about the boy by saying he'd leave him to tell his own story, as he had no desire to put any one away."
Mrs. Chepstow offered no comment, but silently picked up her work and went on with it. Her husband sat back in his chair, stretching his long muscular legs, and folding his hands behind his head. Betty displayed not the least interest in Dave's haltingly told story.
The silence on the veranda was ominous. Chepstow began to refill his pipe, furtively watching his niece's pretty profile as she sat looking down the valley. It was his wife who broke the oppressive silence.
"I can't believe badly—three treble in the adjacent hole"—she muttered, referring to her pattern book, "of him. I always liked him—five chain."
"So do I," put in Dave with emphasis.
Betty glanced quickly into his rugged face.
"You don't believe the insinuations of that letter?" she asked him sharply.
"I don't."
Dave's reply was emphatic. Betty smiled over at him. Then she jumped up from her seat and pointed down the track.