"It is for Dave Evans; and I think you will acknowledge that he needs the money if anybody does." "Dave Evans!" sneered Bob.
"Yes; and he needs clothes and food more than you need a new shot-gun." "I guess I know what I want and how much I want it," retorted Bob.
"I'm to be shoved aside to give place to that lazy ragamuffin, am I?
If I don't make you wish that you had kept your nose out of my business, I'm a Dutchman." Bert did not wait to hear all of this speech.

Seeing that Bob was getting angrier every minute, and that his rage was likely to get the better of him, he drew on his gloves, mounted his pony and set out for home.

Bob followed a quarter of a mile or so in his rear, and once or twice he whipped up his horse and closed in on Bert as if he had made up his mind to carry out his threat of slapping him over.
But every time he did so a sturdy, broad-shouldered figure, with a face that looked wonderfully like Don Gordon's, seemed to come between him and the unconscious object of his pursuit, and then Bob would rein in his horse and let Bert get farther ahead of him.
Presently Bob came to a road running at right angles with the one he was following, and there he stopped, for he saw Lester Brigham approaching at a full gallop.

The latter was by his side in a few seconds, and his first question was:-- "Been to the post-office ?" "I have, and there's the letter on which I built so many hopes," replied Bob, handing out the document which he had crumpled into a little round ball.

"We were too late.