"Aye, to be sure," answered Hawkins, standing half in shadow on the
step of the bar-parlor, rifle on shoulder, where I thought he made a
very wild figure. "Brought it here, he did. All of us see it. That
stuck up about it, he was. Not as I should have thought much of it if
a party had give it to me, I do say."

"Then what was it?"

"Why--it were a little figure like--gold _he_ said it were, but brass
I reckon. Ugly it were, but he says he's goin' to wear it on his
watch-chain. Good night, sir."

He turned and departed, but:

"What kind of figure?" I called after him.

Out of the darkness his voice came back:

"A sort of a _cat_, sir."

And I heard his outlandish laughter dying away in the distance.




CHAPTER XII

I DREAM OF GREEN EYES