Owen Sack turned from the stove as the door of his cabin opened to admit 'Rip' Yust, and with the hand that did not hold the coffeepot Owen Sack motioned hospitably toward the table, where food steamed before a ready chair. "Hullo, Rip! Set down and go to it while it's hot. 'Twon't take me but a minute to throw some more together for myself." That was Owen Sack, a short man of compact wiriness, with round china-blue eyes and round ruddy cheeks, and only the thinness of his straw-coloured hair to tell of his fifty-odd years, a quiet little man whose too-eager friendliness at times suggested timidity. Rip Yust crossed to the table, but he paid no attention to its burden of food. Instead, he placed two big fists on the tabletop, leaned his weight on them, and scowled at Owen Sack. He was big, this Rip Yust, barrel-bodied, slope-shouldered, thick-limbed, and his usual manner was a phlegmatic sort of sullenness. But now his heavy features were twisted into a scowl. "They got 'Lucky' this morning," he said after a moment, and his voice wasn't the voice of one who brings news. It was accusing. "Who got him?" But Owen Sack's eyes swerved from the other's as he put the question, and he moistened his lips nervously. He knew who had got Rip's brother. "Who do you guess?" with heavy derision. "The Prohis! You know it!" The little man winced. "Aw, Rip! How would I know it? I ain't been to town for a week, and nobody never comes past here any more." "Yeah, I wonder how you would know it." Yust walked around the table, to where Owen Sack—with little globules of moisture glistening on his round face—stood, caught him by the slack of his blue shirt bosom and lifted him clear of the floor. Twice Yust shook the little man—shook him with a lack of vehemence that was more forcible than any violence could have been—and set him down on his feet again.