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“Maybe we’re in time, after all,” he said slowly. “Here’s some kind uh dried stuff I got off the ceiling; I thought maybe yuh might need it–you’re great on Indian weeds.” He pulled a crumpled, faintly aromatic bundle of herbs from his pocket.

Dock took it and sniffed disgustedly, and dropped the herbs contemptuously to the ground. “Dat not wort’ notting–she what you call–de–catneep.” He smiled sourly.

Weary cast a furtive glance at Happy Jack, and hoped he had not overheard. Catnip! Still, how could he be expected to know what the blamed stuff was? He untied the black medicine-case and brought it and put it at the feet of Old Dock. “Well, here’s the joker, anyhow,” he said. “It like to wore a hole clear through my leg, but I was careful and I don’t believe any uh the bottles are busted.”

Dock looked at it and sat heavily down upon a box. He looked at the case queerly, then lifted his shaggy head to gaze up at Weary. And behind the bleared gravity of his eyes was something very like a twinkle. “Dis, she not cure seek mans, neider. She–” He pressed a tiny spring which Weary had not discovered and laid the case open upon the ground. “You see?” he said plaintively. “She not good for Patsy–she tree-dossen can-openaire.”

Weary stared blankly. Happy Jack came up, looked and doubled convulsively. Can-openers! Three dozen of them. Old Dock was explaining in his best English, and he was courteously refraining from the faintest smile.

“Dey de new, bettaire kind. I send for dem, I t’ink maybe I sell. I put her in de grip–so–I carry dem all togedder. My mediceen, she in de beeg ches’.”

Weary had sat down and his head was dropped dejectedly into his hands. He had bungled the whole thing, after all. “Well,” he said apathetically. “The chest was locked; I never opened it.”

Old Dock nodded his head gravely. “She lock,” he assented, gently. “She mooch mediceen–she wort’ mooch mooney. De key, she in mine pocket–” “Oh, I don’t give a damn where the key is–now,” flared Weary. “I guess Patsy’ll have to cash in; that’s all.”

“Aw, gwan!” cried Happy Jack. “A sheepman come along just after you left, and he had a quart uh whisky. We begged it off him and give Patsy a good bit jolt. That eased him up some, and we give him another–and he got to hollerin’ so loud for more uh the same, so we just set the bottle in easy reach and let him alone. He’s in there now, drunk as a biled owl–the lazy old devil. I had to get supper and breakfast too–and looks like I’d have to cook dinner. Poison–hell! I betche he never had nothing but a plain old belly-ache!”

Weary got up and went to the mess-tent, lifted the flap and looked in upon Patsy lying on the flat of his back, snoring comfortably. He regarded him silently a moment, then looked over his shoulder to where Old Dock huddled over the three dozen can-openers.

“Oh, mamma!” he whispered, and poured himself a cup of coffee.