On Monday evening I rode out to the ranch, urged by Moore, who was anxious that someone should look after Bruce.
"I don't belong to them," he said, "you do.

They won't resent your coming." Nor did they.

They were sitting at tea, and welcomed me with a shout.
"Hello, old domine!" yelled Bruce, "where's your preacher friend ?" "Where you ought to be, if you could get there--at home," I replied, nettled at his insolent tone.
"Strike one!" called out Hi, enthusiastically, not approving Bruce's attitude toward his friend, The Pilot.
"Don't be so acute," said Bruce, after the laugh had passed, "but have a drink." He was flushed and very shaky and very noisy.

The Duke, at the head of the table, looked a little harder than usual, but, though pale, was quite steady.

The others were all more or less nerve-broken, and about the room were the signs of a wild night.