CHAPTER XV.

George's second summer's work was less like a pleasure expedition than his first had been. He spent only a few days at Greenway Court, and then started off, not with a boy companion and old Lance, but with two hardy mountaineers, Gist and Davidson. Gist was a tall, rawboned fellow, perfectly taciturn, but of an amazing physical strength and of hardy courage. Davidson was small but alert, and, in contradistinction to Gist's taciturnity, was an inveterate talker. He had spent many years among the Indians, and, besides knowing them thoroughly, he was master of most of their dialects. Lord Fairfax had these two men in his eye for months as the best companions for George. He was to penetrate much farther into the wilderness, and to come in frequent contact with the Indians, and Lord Fairfax wished and meant that he should be well equipped for it. Billy of course went with him, and Rattler went with Billy, for it had now got to be an accepted thing that Billy would not be separated from his master. A strange instance of Billy's determination in this respect showed itself as soon as the second expedition was arranged. Both George and Lord Fairfax doubted the wisdom of taking the black boy along. When Billy heard of this, he said to George, quite calmly,

"Ef you leave me 'hine you, Marse George, you ain' fin' no Billy when you gits back."

"How is that?" asked George.

"'Kase I gwi' starve myself. I ain' gwi' teck nuttin' to eat, nor a drap o' water--I jes gwi' starve twell I die."

George laughed at this, knowing Billy to be an unconscionable eater ordinarily, and did not for a moment take him in earnest. Billy, however, for some reason understood that he was to be left at Greenway Court. George noticed, two or three days afterwards, that the boy seemed ill, and so weak he could hardly move. He asked about it, and Billy's reply was very prompt.

"I 'ain' eat nuttin' sence I knowed you warn' gwi' teck me wid you, Marse George."

"But," said George, in amazement, "I never said so."

"Is you gwi' teck mo?" persisted Billy.

"I don't know," replied George, puzzled by the boy. "But is it possible you have not eaten anything since the day you asked me about it?"

"Naw, suh," said Billy, coolly. "An' I ain' gwi' eat twell you say I kin go wid you. I done th'ow my vittles to de horgs ev'ry day sence den--an' I gwi' keep it up, ef you doan' lem me go."

George was thunderstruck. Here was a case for discipline, and he was a natural disciplinarian. But where Billy was concerned George had a very weak spot, and he had an uncomfortable feeling that the simple, ignorant, devoted fellow might actually do as he threatened. Therefore he promised, in a very little while, that Billy should not be separated from him--at which Billy got up strength enough to cut the pigeon-wing, and then made a bee-line for the kitchen. George followed him, and nearly had to knock him down to keep him from eating himself ill. Lord Fairfax could not refrain from laughing when George, gravely, and with much ingenuity in putting the best face on Billy's conduct, told of it, and George felt rather hurt at the Earl's laughing; he did not like to be laughed at, and people always laughed at him about Billy, which vexed him exceedingly.

On this summer's journey he first became really familiar with the Indians over the mountains. He came across his old acquaintance Black Bear, who showed a most un-Indian-like gratitude. He joined the camp, rather to the alarm of Gist and Davidson, who, as Davidson said, might wake up any morning and find themselves scalped. George, however, permitted Black Bear to remain, and the Indian's subsequent conduct showed the wisdom of this. He told that his father, Tanacharison, the powerful chief, was now inclined to the English, and claimed the credit of converting him. He promised George he would be safe whenever he was anywhere within the influence of Tanacharison.

George devoted his leisure to the study of the Indian dialects, and from Black Bear himself he learned much of the ways and manners and prejudices of the Indians. He spent months in arduous work, and when, on the 1st of October, he returned to Greenway, he had proved himself to be the most capable surveyor Lord Fairfax had ever had.

The Earl, in planning for the next year's work, asked George one day, "But why, my dear George, do you lead this laborious life, when you are the heir of a magnificent property?"

George's face flushed a little.

"One does not relish very much, sir, the idea of coming into property by the death of a person one loves very much, as I love my brother Laurence. And I would rather order my life as if there were no such thing in the world as inheriting Mount Vernon. As it is, I have every privilege there that any one could possibly have, and I hope my brother will live as long as I do to enjoy it."

"That is the natural way that a high-minded young man would regard it; and if your brother had not been sure of your disinterestedness you may be sure he would never have made you his heir. Grasping people seldom, with all their efforts, secure anything from others."

These two yearly visits of George's to Greenway Court--one on his way to the mountains, and the other and longer one when he returned--were the bright times of the year to the Earl. This autumn he determined to accompany George back to Mount Vernon, and also to visit the Fairfaxes at Belvoir. The great coach was furbished up for the journey, the outriders' liveries were brought forth from camphor-chests, and the four roans were harnessed up. George followed the same plan as on his first journey with Lord Fairfax, two years before--driving with him in the coach the first stage of the day, and riding the last stage.

On reaching Mount Vernon, George was distressed to see his brother looking thinner and feebler than ever, and Mrs. Washington was plainly anxious about him. Both were delighted to have him back, as Laurence was quite unable to attend to the vast duties of such a place, and Mrs. Washington had no one but an overseer to rely on. The society of Lord Fairfax, who was peculiarly charming and comforting to persons of a grave temperament, did much for Laurence Washington's spirits. Lord Fairfax had himself suffered, and he realized the futility of wealth and position to console the great sorrows of life.

George spent only a day or two at Mount Vernon, and then made straight for Ferry Farm. His brothers, now three fine tall lads, with their tutor, were full of admiration for the handsome, delightful brother, of whom they saw little, but whose coming was always the most joyful event at Ferry Farm.

George was now nearing his nineteenth birthday, and the graceful, well-made youth had become one of the handsomest men of his day. As Betty stood by him on the hearth-rug the night of his arrival, she looked at him gravely for a long time, and then said:

"George, you are not at all ugly. Indeed, I think you are nearly as handsome as brother Laurence before he was ill."

"Betty," replied George, looking at her critically, "let me return the compliment. You are not unhandsome, but never, never, if you live to be a hundred years old, will you be half so beautiful as our mother."

Madam Washington, standing by them, her slender figure overtopped by their fair young heads, blushed like a girl at this, and told them severely, as a mother should, that beauty counted for but little, either in this world or the next. But in the bottom of her heart the beauty of her two eldest children gave her a keen delight.

Betty was, indeed, a girl of whom any mother might be proud. Like George, she was tall and fair, and had the same indescribable air of distinction. She was now promoted to the dignity of a hoop and a satin petticoat, and her beautiful bright hair was done up in a knot becoming a young lady of sixteen. Although an only daughter, she was quite unspoiled, and her life was a pleasant round of duties and pleasures, with which her mother and her three younger brothers, and above all, her dear George, were all connected. The great events in her life were her visits to Mount Vernon. Her brother and sister there regarded her rather as a daughter than a sister, and for her young sake the old house resumed a little of its former cheerfulness.

George spent several days at Ferry Farm on that visit, and was very happy. His coming was made a kind of holiday. The servants were delighted to see him; and as for Billy, the remarkable series of adventures through which he alleged he had passed made him quite a hero, and caused Uncle Jasper and Aunt Sukey to regard him with pride, as the flower of their flock, instead of the black sheep.

Billy was as fond of eating and as opposed to working as ever, but he now gave himself the airs of a man of the world, supported by his various journeys to Mount Vernon and Greenway Court, and the possession of a scarlet satin waistcoat of George's, which inspired great respect among the other negroes when he put it on. Billy loved to harangue a listening circle of black faces on the glories of Mount Vernon, of which "Marse George" was one day to be King, and Billy was to be Prime Minister.

"You niggers livin' heah on dis heah little truck-patch 'ain' got no notion o' Mount Vernon," said Billy, loftily, one night, to an audience of the house-servants in the "charmber." "De house is as big as de co't-house in Fredericksburg, an' when me an' Marse George gits it we gwi' buil' a gre't piece to it. An' de hosses--Lord, dem hosses! You 'ain' never seen so many hosses sence you been born. An' de coaches--y'all thinks de Earl o' F'yarfax got a mighty fine coach--well, de ve'y oldes' an' po'es' coach at Mount Vernon is a heap finer'n dat ar one o' Marse F'yarfax. An' when me an' Marse George gits Mount Vernon, arter Marse Laurence done daid, we-all is gwine ter have a coach lined wid white satin, same like the Earl o' F'yarfax's bes' weskit, an' de harness o' red morocky, an' solid gol' tires to de wheels. You heah me, niggers? And Marse George, he say--"

"You are the most unconscionable liar I ever knew!" shouted George, in a passion, suddenly appearing behind Billy; "and if ever I hear of your talking about what will happen at Mount Vernon, or even daring to say that it may be mine, I will make you sorry for it, as I am alive."

George was in such a rage that he picked up a hair-brush off the chest of drawers and shied it at Billy, who dodged, and the brush went to smash on the brick hearth. At this the unregenerate Billy burst into a subdued guffaw, and looking into George's angry eyes, chuckled,

"Hi, Marse George, you done bus' yo' ma's h'yar-bresh!" Which showed how much impression "Marse George's" wrath made on Billy.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

A QUEER HOSPITAL.

"I went to the animals' fair, The birds and beasts were there"--

at any rate it was the animals' hospital, and there were enough birds and beasts for a fair. The hospital is in charge of the New York College of Veterinary Surgeons, and that, if you please, is part of the University of New York; so if you wanted to send your dickey-bird there for the pip, he would be in a manner under the sheltering wing of all the D.D.s and LL.D.s that shine as the regents of that noble institution.

New York people are apt to call this the dog hospital, but that must be because they take more interest in the dogs than in its other inmates, for here you can get medical treatment for any living thing except a human being. Horses, cows, dogs, and cats form the steady bulk of its beneficiaries, but elephants and white mice are among them too.

And not only animals are brought here, but the doctors go out and make them professional visits. One of the doctors is now attending the curious dreadful-looking Gila monster at the Zoo in Central Park; he comes--the monster, not the doctor--from Arizona, near the Gila River, and he is two feet long, with a body like an alligator and a head like a snake; he is in a low state of health, and neither food nor drink has passed his lips for seven months. How is that for a poor appetite?

The doctor does not have much hope of him; the matter seems to be that he was kept too warm and fed too much (on raw eggs) last winter, when he ought to have been hibernating, or something like it.

A great deal of the hospital's most interesting practice is among the animals kept in zoological gardens or in travelling shows. An old circus lion was brought here not long ago to have his ulcerated tooth pulled. Now if the toothache makes you feel as "cross as a bear," how cross does the toothache make a live lion feel?

To tell the truth, no one at the hospital wanted to know how cross that lion did feel--they thought it was a case in which it would be folly to be wise. The first thing to be done was to drop nooses of rope on the floor of his cage, and then draw them up when he put his foot in one--he knew he had "put his foot in it" when he found himself snared--and so, step by step, get him bound and helpless. If you will think how particularly hard it is to tie up a cat, you may guess that it is no joke to make a lion fast; he is just like a stupendous cat in his agility and slipperiness. The only way to render him helpless is to get his hind quarters tied up outside his cage, and his head bound fast within it; the next thing, for dental work, is to put a gag in his mouth; that is the easier because there is no trouble at all about getting him to open his mouth--he does it every time any one goes near him.

When they have these beasts of the jungle at the hospital their keepers have to stay with them; but even then they can't always prevent mischief. A baby elephant from a big circus was about the most disorderly patient they ever had there, though, in spite of her naughtiness, she became quite a pet with everybody about. She had a cold and the sniffles when she first came, and was subdued and patient, just like some stirring children when they are sick; but as she got better she almost pulled the whole place down in her efforts to get something to play with. She reached out of her stall and took a large office clock off the wall. No one had supposed she could reach it, and she had broken it to what her keeper called smithereens before he could stop her. If she could find a crack anywhere, destruction began; if it was in the plaster, the plaster was ripped off; if between boards, up came a board. But the baby was not so likely as some of her grown-up relatives to just knock down the side of the house and walk out, which is an occurrence always possible when you have an elephant come to see you. Elephants are poor sailors; they get dreadfully seasick, and often when they are just landed they are brought to the hospital to recuperate. Gin is the great remedy in that case; they particularly love gin, and all their medicine is usually given to them in gin.

When medicine cannot be given disguised in drink or food, it is usually squeezed down the patient's throat with a syringe. The horses are very good about that operation, but the dogs are often troublesome at first; but both dogs and horses soon learn that they are with friends, and then they are wonderfully good and grateful even when the doctors have to hurt them.

For many dogs little can be done until they have been in the institution several days and the doctors have made friends with them; after that they almost always turn out good patients--not always. Do you want to know why some dogs can't be treated there at all? Because they are so homesick; they pine and fret so that their masters, or oftener in these cases it is their mistresses, have to come and take them away, and they must needs have medical attendance at home. One of the most aristocratic patients ever treated here was a French poodle supposed to be worth a thousand dollars. He wore a little diamond bracelet on one paw, and he could do tricks enough to earn his living on the stage; but he did not have to earn his living. He came to the hospital to have his teeth attended to, and some of them were filled with gold. One of his tricks was to laugh, and when he did that all his gold fillings showed.

Many of the pet lap-dogs, particularly those that belong to women, come to the hospital because they have been overfed. The doctors tell a bad story about pugs particularly being little gluttons. On the other hand, they say that many fine and valuable dogs don't get meat enough. Dogs need meat, but some mistaken people think it's better to try to make vegetarians of them, and then the dogs are apt to get the ricketts. The big baby St. Bernards suffer much in this way; it takes a great deal of meat to make a grown St. Bernard out of a young one, and if he does not have enough the job won't be properly done.

The cats and dogs stay in one big ward, each one in its own iron cage, and the cats must understand that the cages are strong, for they don't seem to mind being near the dogs at all. In fact, one of the doctors says he put his own cat in this ward for a while, and when she came home she showed an entire change of heart about dogs; instead of the terror she had always felt of them, she was ready to be good friends with the canine members of her own family. There is a big tin roof railed in that makes an exercising-ground for the convalescent dogs, but the cats have to take the air in a big cage some six feet square that is built on the roof; they can climb too well to be trusted loose.

One of the most cheerful patients in the place now is a canary that has had a leg amputated; he gets on much better than you would if you had only one leg; he chirps, and hops about comfortably, and the doctors think he will soon take to singing again--the brave little bird.

All the appointments of the place are as careful and scientific as they can be anywhere; there are special wards for contagious diseases, and in all operations hands, towels, bandages, and instruments are sterilized after the most approved modern methods. Ether and cocaine are frequently used to save pain, but best of all is the way everybody in the place seems to have a genuine kind feeling, sometimes a warm affection, for the poor yet lucky sufferers.

THE VOYAGE OF THE "RATTLETRAP."

BY HAYDEN CARRUTH.

VII.

"Come, stir out of that and get the camels ready for the desert!"

This was Jack's cheery way of warning Ollie and I that it was time to get up on the morning of our start into the sand hills.

"Any simooms in sight?" asked Ollie, by way of reply to Jack's remark.

"Well, I think Old Browny scents one; he has got his nose buried in the sand like a camel," answered Jack.

It was only just coming daylight, but we were agreed that an early start was best. It was another Monday morning, and we knew that it would take three good days' driving to carry us through the sand country. We had learned that, notwithstanding what our visitor of the first night had said, there were several places on the road where we could get water and feed for the horses. We should have to carry some water along, however, and had got two large kegs from Valentine, and filled them and all of our jugs and pails the night before. We also had a good stock of oats and corn, and a big bundle of hay, which we put in the cabin on the bed.

"Just as soon as Old Blacky finds that there is no water along the road he will insist on having about a barrel a day," said Jack. "And if he can't get it he will balk and kick the dashboard into kindling-wood."

A little before sunrise we started. It was agreed, owing to the increase in the load and the deep sand, that no one, not even Snoozer, should be allowed to ride in the wagon. If Ollie got tired he was to ride the pony. So we started off, walking beside the wagon, with the pony just behind, as usual, dangling her stirrups, and the abused Snoozer, looking very much hurt at the insult put upon him in being asked to walk, following behind her.

For three or four miles the road was much like that to which we had been accustomed. Then it gradually began to grow sandier. We were following an old trail which ran near the railroad, sometimes on one side and sometimes on the other; and this was the case all the way through the hills. The railroad was new, having been built only a year or two before. There were stations on it every fifteen or twenty miles, with a side track, and a water-tank for the engines, but not much else.

There was no well-marked boundary to the sand hills, but gradually, and almost before we realized it, we found ourselves surrounded by them. We came to a crossing of the railroad, and in a little cut a few rods away we saw the sand drifted over the rails three or four inches deep, precisely like snow.

"Well," said Jack, "I guess we're in the sand hills at last if we've got where it drifts."

"I wonder if they have to have sand-ploughs on their engines?" said Ollie.

"I've heard that they frequently have to stop and shovel it off," answered Jack.

As we got farther among the sand dunes we found them all sizes and shapes, though usually circular, and from fifteen to forty feet high. Of course the surface of this country was very irregular, and there would be places here and there where the grass had obtained a little footing and the sand had not drifted up. There were also some hills which seemed to be independent of the sand piles.

We stopped for noon on a little flat where there was some struggling grass. This flat ran off to the north, and narrowed into a small valley through which in the spring probably a little water flowed. We had finished dinner when we noticed a flock of big birds circling about the little valley, and, on looking closer, saw that some of them were on the ground.

"They are sand-hill cranes," said Jack. "I've seen them in Dakota, but this must be their home."

They were immense birds, white and gray, and with very long legs. Jack took his rifle and tried to creep up on them, but they were too shy, and soared away to the south.

We soon passed the first station on the railroad, called Crookston. The telegraph-operator came out and looked at us, admitted that it was a sandy neighborhood, and went back in. We toiled on without any incident of note during the whole afternoon. Toward night we passed another station, called Georgia, and the man in charge allowed us to fill our kegs from the water-tank. We went on three or four miles and stopped beside the trail, and a hundred yards from the railroad, for the night. The great drifts of sand were all around us, and no desert could have been lonelier. We had a little wood and built a camp fire. The evening was still and there was not a sound. Even the blacksmith's pet, wandering about seeking what he could devour, and finding nothing, made scarcely a sound in the soft sand. The moon was shining, and it was warm as any summer evening. Jack sat on the ground beside the wagon and played the banjo for half an hour. After a while we walked over to the railroad. We could hear a faint rumble, and concluded that a train was approaching.

"Let's wait for it," proposed Jack. "It will be along in a moment."

We waited and listened. Then we distinctly heard the whistle of a locomotive, and the faint roar gradually ceased.

"It's stopped somewhere," I said.

"Don't see what it should stop around here for," said Jack. "Unless to take on a sand-hill crane."

Then we heard it start up, run a short distance, and again stop; this it repeated half a dozen times, and then after a pause it settled down to a long steady roar again.

"It isn't possible, is it, that that train has been stopped at the next station west of here?" I said.

"The next station is Cody, and it's a dozen miles from here," answered Jack. "It doesn't seem as if we could hear it so far, but we'll time it and see."

He looked at his watch and we waited. For a long time the roar kept up, occasionally dying away as the train probably went through a deep cut or behind a hill. It gradually increased in volume, till at last it seemed as if the train must certainly be within a hundred yards. Still it did not appear, and the sound grew louder and louder. But at the end of thirty-five minutes it came around the curve in sight and thundered by, a long freight train, and making more noise, it seemed, than any train ever made before.

"That's where it was," exclaimed Jack. "At Cody, twelve miles from here, and we first heard it, I don't know how far beyond. If I ever go into the telephone business I'll keep away from the sand hills. A man here ought to be able to hold a pleasant chat with a neighbor two miles off, and by speaking up loud ask the postmaster ten miles away if there is any mail for him."

We were off ploughing through the sand again early the next morning. We could not give the horses quite all the water they wanted, but we did the best we could. We were in the heart of the hills all day. There were simply thousands of the great sand drifts in every direction. Buffalo bones half buried were becoming numerous. We saw several coyotes, or prairie wolves, skulking about, but we shot at them without success. We got water at Cody, and pressed on. In the afternoon we sighted some antelope looking cautiously over the crest of a sand billow. Ollie mounted the pony and I took my rifle, and we went after them, while Jack kept on with the wagon. They retreated, and we followed them a mile or more back from the trail, winding among the drifts and attempting to get near enough for a shot. But they were too wary for us. At last we mounted a hill rather higher than the rest, and saw them scampering away a mile or more to the northwest. We were surprised more by something which we saw still on beyond them, and that was a little pond of water deep down between two great ridges of sand.

"I didn't expect to see a lake in this country," said Ollie.

I studied the lay of the land a moment, and said: "I think it's simply a place where the wind has scooped out the sand down below the water-line and it has filled up. The wind has dug a well, that's all. You know the operator at Georgia told us the wells here were shallow--that there's plenty of water down a short distance."

We could see that there was considerable grass and quite an oasis around the pond. But in every other direction there was nothing but sand billows, all scooped out on their northwest sides where the fierce winds of winter had gnawed at them. The afternoon sun was sinking, and every dune cast a dark shadow on the light yellow of the sand, making a great landscape of glaring light covered with black spots. A coyote sat on a buffalo skull on top of the next hill and looked at us. A little owl flitted by and disappeared in one of the shadows.

"This is like being adrift in an open boat," I said to Ollie. "We must hurry on and catch the Rattletrap."

"I'm in the open boat," answered Ollie. "You're just simply swimming about without even a life-preserver on."

We turned and started for the trail. We found it, but we had spent more time in the hills than we realized, and before we had gone far it began to grow dark. We waded on, and at last saw Jack's welcome camp-fire. When we came up we smelled grouse cooking, and he said:

"While you fellows were chasing about and getting lost I gathered in a brace of fat grouse. What you want to do next time is to take along your hat full of oats, and perhaps you can coax the antelope to come up and eat."

The camp was near another railroad station called Eli. We had been gradually working north, and were now not over three or four miles from the Dakota line; but Dakota here consisted of nothing but the immense Sioux Indian Reservation, two or three hundred miles long.

The next morning Jack complained of not feeling well.

"What's the matter, Jack?" I asked.

"Gout," answered Jack, promptly. "I'm too good a cook for myself. I'm going to let you cook for a few days, and give my system a rest."

This seemed very funny to Ollie and I, who had been eating Jack's cooking for two or three weeks. The fact was that the gouty Jack was the poorest cook that ever looked into a kettle, and he knew it well enough. He could make one thing--pan-cakes--nothing else. They were usually fairly good, though he would sometimes get his recipes mixed up, and use his sour-milk one when the milk was sweet, or his sweet-milk one when it was sour; but we got accustomed to this. Then it was hard to spoil young and tender fried grouse, and the stewed plums had been good, though he had got some hay mixed with them; but the flavor of hay is not bad. We bought frequently of "canned goods" at the stores, and this he could not injure a great deal.

We did not pay much attention to Jack's threat about stopping cooking. He got breakfast after a fashion, mixing sour and sweet milk as an experiment, and though he didn't eat much himself, we did not think he was going to be sick. But after walking a short distance he declared he could go no farther, and climbed into the cabin and rolled upon the bed.

Ollie and I ploughed along with the sand still streaming, like long flaxen hair, off the wagon-wheels as they turned. In a little valley about ten o'clock Ollie shot his first grouse. We saw some more antelope, and met a man with his wife and six children and five dogs and two cows and twelve chickens going east. Ho said he was tired of Nebraska, and was on his way to Illinois. At noon we stopped at Merriman, another railroad station. Jack got up and made a pretense of getting dinner, but he ate nothing himself, and really began to look ill.

We made but a short stop, as we were anxious to get out of the worst of the sand that afternoon. We asked about feed and water for the horses, and were told that we could get both at Irwin, another station fifteen miles ahead. We pressed on, with Jack still in the wagon, but it was dark before we reached the station. We found a man on the railroad track.

"Can we get some feed and water here?" I asked of him.

"Reckon not," answered the man.

"Where can we find the station agent?"

"He's gone up to Gordon, and won't be back till mid-night."

"Hasn't any one got any horse feed for sale?"

"There isn't a smell of horse feed here," said the man. "I've got the only well, except the railroad's, but it's 'most dry. I'll give you what water I can, though. As for feed, you'd better go on three miles to Keith's ranch. It's on Lost Creek Flat, and there's lots of hay-stacks there, and you can help yourself. At the ranch-house they will give you other things."

We drove over to the man's house, and got half a pail of water apiece for the horses. They wanted more, but there was no more in the well. The man said we could get everything we wanted at the ranch, and we started on. The horses were tired, but even Old Blacky was quite amiable, and trudged along in the sand without complaint.

Jack was still in the wagon, and we heard nothing of him. It was cloudy and very dark. But the horses kept in the trail, and after, as it seemed to us, we had gone five miles, we felt ourselves on firmer ground. Soon we thought we could make out something, perhaps hay-stacks, through the darkness. I sent Ollie on the pony to see what it was. He rode away, and in a moment I heard a great snorting and a stamping of feet, and Ollie's voice calling for me to come. I ran over with the lantern, and found that he had ridden full into a barbed-wire fence around a hay-stack. The pony stood trembling, with the blood flowing from her breast and legs, but the scratches did not seem to be deep.

"We must find that ranch-house," I said to Ollie. "It ought to be near."

For half an hour we wandered among the wilderness of hay-stacks, every one protected by barbed wire. At last we heard a dog barking, followed the sound, and came to the house. The dog was the only live thing at home, and the house was locked.

"Well, what we want is water," I said, "and here's the well."

We let down the bucket and brought up two quarts of mud.

"The man was right," said Ollie. "This is worse than the Sarah Desert."

"Fountains squirt and bands play 'The Old Oaken Bucket' in the Sarah Desert 'longside o' this," I answered.

It was eleven o'clock before we found the wagon. We could hear Jack snoring inside, and were surprised to find Snoozer on guard outside, wide awake. He seemed to feel his responsibility, and at first was not inclined to let us approach.

We unharnessed the horses, and Ollie crawled under the fence around one of the stacks of hay and pulled out a big armful for them.

"The poor things shall have all the hay they want, anyhow," he said.

"I'm afraid they'll think it's pretty dry," I returned, "but I don't see what we can do."

Then I called to Jack, and said, "Come, get up and get us some supper."

After a good deal of growling he called back, "I'm not hungry."

"But we are, and you're well enough to make some cakes."

"Won't do it," answered Jack. "You folks can make 'em as well as I can."

"I can't. Can you?" I said to Ollie. He shook his head.

"You're not very sick or you wouldn't be so cross," I called to Jack. "Roll out and get supper, or I'll pull you out!"

"First fellow comes in this wagon gets the head knocked off 'm!" cried Jack. "Besides, there's no milk! No eggs! No nothing! Go 'way! I'm sick! That's all there is," and something which looked like a cannon-ball shot out of the front end of the wagon, followed by a paper bag which might have been the wadding used in the cannon. "That's all! Lemme 'lone!" and we heard Jack tie down the front of the cover and roll over on the bed again.

"See what it is," I said to Ollie.

He took the lantern and started. "Guess it's a can of Boston baked beans," he said.

"Oh, then we're all right," I replied.

He picked it up and studied it carefully by the light of the lantern.

"No," he said, slowly, "it isn't that. G--g, double o--gooseberries--that's what it is--a can of gooseberries we got at Valentine."

"And this is a paper bag of sugar," I said, picking it up. "No gout to-night!"

I cut open the can and poured in the sugar. We stirred it up with a stick, and Ollie drank a third of it and I the rest. Then we crawled under the wagon, covered ourselves with the pony's saddle-blanket, and went to sleep. But before we did so I said:

"Ollie, at the next town I am going to get you a cook-book, and we'll be independent of that wretch in the wagon."

"All right," answered Ollie.

[TO BE CONTINUED.]

BY PAUL DU CHAILLU.