Adrian noticed that his cousin was making his way slowly toward more shallow water. When he got to a point half way to the bank Roger held up the fish pole, so that Adrian could grasp it. The latter saw the idea at once, and, with a quick motion, he took hold of the bamboo rod, and pulled his cousin along until it was an easy matter for the boy to walk out. Roger stepped on the shelving bank, below the swimming hole, dripping water like a big Newfoundland dog. His breathing was rather uncertain, and his teeth chattered, for the water was cold.

"I thought at first you were a goner," said Adrian, grasping Roger's hand heartily. "I never imagined you could swim."

"I learned how in the free baths down at the Battery, in New York, where we fellows used to go Saturdays," explained Roger. "Only that's salt water, and it's easier to keep afloat in than this. I wasn't scared after the first few seconds. It took me by surprise, and knocked the breath out of me, that's all. I didn't know where I was for a little while."

"I don't blame you," agreed Adrian. "Well, I guess that'll be about all the fishing to-day," he went on. "You'd better hurry home with me, and get dry clothes on, so you won't catch cold. If it was July instead of October it wouldn't matter so much. So come on; let's run for it."

They started off across the fields at a smart trot, and soon reached the road. They got there just as a man came along, driving a light wagon.

"It's Enberry Took, who lives right below us," explained Adrian. "He'll give us a lift. Hey, Enberry!"

"Whoa!" exclaimed the man in the wagon, pulling the horse up. "Been fishin', boys, or swimmin'?" he asked as he looked at Roger dripping water, and at the solitary fish Adrian carried. Then Mr. Took smiled grimly, perhaps suspecting what had happened.

"We've been doing a little of both," explained Adrian. "Can we ride home with you, Enberry? This is my cousin, Roger, from New York. He's here on a visit."

"Hop in," invited Mr. Took, shortly, and, when the two boys were settled in the bottom of the wagon, he whipped up his horse, which trotted over the ground in good shape. Almost before Roger and Adrian knew it they were at the gate of their house, greatly surprising Mrs. Kimball and amusing her husband, who laughed heartily when he learned there was no harm done.

"You'll make out all right," he said to Roger, as the boy went to change his wet clothes for dry ones; "you've got a level head on your shoulders, even if ye do live in New York. I'm proud on ye, thet's what I am; I'm proud on ye, Roger."

CHAPTER V

Mr. Kimball had about two hundred swarms, or hives, of bees, the little houses for the insects being arranged in rows in an orchard just south of the farm dwelling. The honey crop had been nearly all gathered in when Roger came, but some of the later swarms were still busy filling up the "caps" with the sweet juices of flowers. Adrian got out two big straw hats, around the edges and coming down on all sides of which was mosquito netting like a long veil. He put on one hat and gave the other to Roger.

"What's it for?" asked the city boy.

"To keep you from getting stung."

"But," began Roger, his ardor cooling as he thought for the first time of the chances of being nipped by the bees, "isn't it dangerous to go out among the hives, even with these veils on?"

"Not a bit," replied Adrian.

But when he saw his cousin heading for the midst of the collection of hives, Roger became somewhat apprehensive, in spite of the assurance. He hung back a bit.

"There won't be any danger for you," said Adrian, observing his hesitation. "I'll put you in a safe place, but if a buzzer or two does come singing around you once in a while just keep perfectly still and it won't hurt you. In fact it can't get at you with the veil on. You can have a pair of gloves, too, so every part of you will be protected. Come on."

Thus assured, though still a trifle doubtful, Roger advanced. As they walked along the path to the orchard Roger noticed that Adrian carried what looked like a big funnel, on the bottom or large part of which was a leather bellows.

"What's that for?" he asked.

"To smoke the bees."

"Smoke the bees?"

"Yes; you'll see in a minute."

On the edge of the apiary was a tool house and another building where the honey and bee hives were stored in for winter, for here in the north bees cannot exist through the cold weather out of doors. Entering the tool house Adrian collected some small pieces of wood and some shavings, and built a little fire in the tin funnel, to which the bellows was attached, using the folded leather arrangement to make a good draught.

Adjusting his hat so that the mosquito netting veil hung down all around his head, Adrian started out with the smoke-machine trailing a fleecy cloud behind him.

"Come on," he called to Roger, handing him a pair of gloves. "Put these on. They're rubber, you see, and the bees can't put their stingers through them."

"Where's yours?" asked Roger, as he drew the gauntlets well over his wrists.

"Oh, I couldn't take off honey in gloves. They'd be too clumsy. But I seldom get stung barehanded, and if I do I don't mind one or two. Got used to 'em. A little ammonia on the sting takes the pain out."

He kept on toward the cluster of hives, and Roger could not help noticing how much his cousin seemed like a diver, with the big head piece on. He, himself, must look the same, he thought.

"You see," explained Adrian, as he saw Roger glancing curiously at the rows of bee houses, "each hive is divided into two parts, top and bottom. In the lower part the bees live, raise their young, and store honey in what we call the big sections. These are beeswax combs, set in light wooden frames. In the top part of the hive are several smaller, square, wooden frames, into which the bees build the comb and fill it with honey. When they have these upper sections filled and capped up, or sealed over, we lift them off and sell them."

"It's rather rough on the bees," observed Roger.

"We always leave them enough," explained Adrian.

As he talked Adrian approached the bee colonies.

"You'd better stay back, now, under that tree," he called to Roger, and the latter was glad enough not to be asked to go any nearer the hives, from which he could hear a busy, droning hum. He much preferred to watch Adrian from this vantage point.

He saw his cousin come up to one of the bee houses from the rear. First the top cover was carefully lifted off, and this was set on the ground, edge up. Next Adrian lifted up a piece of oilcloth that kept all possible dampness from the honey. As soon as this was moved aside Roger saw a black moving mass of bees crawling upward. Adrian quickly took the smoker and puffed a gentle white cloud of vapor on the insects. In an instant they melted away, scurrying downward. The smoke irritated them and made them drowsy, and they wanted to get away from its smarting vapor. This made it safe for any one to work about the hive, under the protection of fumes from the burning wood.

This left free the upper section of the hive, which was filled with caps full of the clear white, or darker buckwheat honey, the bees being below. Adrian then lifted off the whole top part of the little house, and Roger could see that it contained a number of the full caps, in this case there being only the white clover honey. Setting his load down on top of the hive next to him, Adrian replaced the cover on the first hive. Then he puffed several more clouds of smoke on the top section he had just removed, to drive away the few remaining bees that were loath to leave their property.

Adrian carried the section, which contained twenty-four small caps, to the bee house, and returned to repeat the operation on other hives. Roger looked on with much interest as Adrian worked rapidly.

"Got stung yet?" he called to his busy cousin.

"One nipped me on the finger a bit, but I don't mind that. I'm used to it. Are they bothering you?"

"Well," answered Roger, moving his head from side to side, "some of 'em seem anxious to make my acquaintance, but the veil keeps 'em away. All the same they make me nervous."

"We'll soon go inside," called back Adrian. "I'm only going to take off a few more. Then we'll box it and be through."

He removed half a dozen more hive-tops, with the honey-filled sections, each one containing twenty-four pounds of the sweet stuff, a pound to a cap. Then, when he had given the few bees that got in the storehouse a chance to escape, Adrian prepared to pack the honey for market. To do this it was first necessary to scrape from each wooden cap, or the small, one-pound honey boxes, the beeswax that, here and there, marred the clean white wood. Roger wanted to help at this, and, as he could do it safely, Adrian got two dull knives, and he and his cousin began.

"Be sure to keep the caps standing on the same end they are on now," cautioned Adrian.

"Why? What difference does it make?"

"A good deal. If you change 'em around any, and there happens to be some cells that aren't capped over, the honey will run out."

Then Adrian showed Roger that the honey-comb, which is familiar to almost every one, was composed of a number of openings or cells, shaped like a hexagon. These cells were double, there being two sets of them, back and front, in each cap, and they were divided down the middle by a wall of wax. The wise bees gave to each cell a downward slant toward this dividing wall, so that when they had filled them with honey the sweet stuff would not run out. Then, as a further precaution, each tiny opening was sealed over with wax. But sometimes the bees neglected to seal up one or two cells in a cap, and unless these particular ones were kept upright, with the openings slanting downward, there would be a fine mess.

"These caps are pretty well sealed," observed Adrian, "but you always have to be careful," and he was on the lookout to see that no mistakes were made.

The two boys now busied themselves with scraping off the dried wax from the outside of the caps, and, as each one was finished it was placed in a pasteboard box, labelled with the contents "White clover honey," and with Mr. Kimball's name and address.

"Dad's got a good honey crop this year," commented Adrian. "Plenty of white clover, which sells better than buckwheat, though I don't like it so well as the dark honey."

"What do they call it buckwheat for? Because it's made from buckwheat flour?"

"Land no. Because it's from the sweet juices of the buckwheat flowers. Lots of people say buckwheat honey is too strong for 'em, but we all like it better than clover, which is made from clover blossoms. Buckwheat seems to have a sort of 'whang' to it, dad says."

"Wa'al, boys, how ye makin' out?" asked a deep voice from the doorway, and Mr. Kimball entered the storeroom.

"All right, I guess," answered Roger.

"Glad t' hear it. We'll make a reg'lar bee-farmer out a' ye 'fore ye git home."

He carefully inspected the boys' work and seemed satisfied with it.

"I guess that'll do fer this trip," he remarked to Adrian, counting the caps. "Say, Ade," he went on, "how'd you 'n' Roger like t' take a load a' grapes over t' Tully t'-morrow? Andrews wrote me he could use some."

"I thought you were going to take the horses to the city with your load," replied Adrian.

"So I be, but I'll borrow Truem Wright's hoss 'n' wagon ef ye think ye kin git over Tully hill 'ith th' rig. I'd send Jim, th' hired man, only I want him t' pick grapes t'-morrow when I'm gone. What d' ye say? Want t' go?"

"Do you?" asked Adrian of Roger.

"I think it would be lots of fun," replied the city boy. "I'll be glad to go along."

"All right, dad; you go and ask Truem for the horse, and to-night Roger and I'll load up the wagon so's to start early in the morning," said Adrian.

"Aren't you boys hungry?" asked some one standing in the doorway, and they all looked up to see Clara with a big plate of freshly baked molasses cookies.

"Hungry? Well, I just guess we are," exclaimed Adrian, as he held the plate and passed it to Roger, who took a cake. Adrian helped himself to two, and Mr. Kimball was not satisfied with less than three, which he munched successively with every indication of satisfaction.

"No use talkin'," he said, looking at Roger with a twinkle in his blue eyes, "your aunt does bake the best cookies in Onondaga County," and he took a fourth one, while Clara laughed merrily to see her father's enjoyment of the little lunch she had provided.

"They are certainly fine," agreed Roger, finishing his second one.

The plate was soon emptied, and Clara offered to go for more, but they all voted they had enough for the present. Then Mr. Kimball cut open one of the caps of honey, and he and the boys ate the sweet stuff, which, a short time before had been in the hive.

"Don't you want some?" asked Roger of Clara, offering her a thick slice of the comb.

"No, thank you," she replied. "I've eaten so much this last month I'm afraid I'll turn into a bee," and she hurried back to the house with a ringing laugh.

It was only four o'clock when the honey had all been packed ready for shipment, and Mr. Kimball left to make arrangements for the trip to-morrow. Adrian, for whom there was no more work that afternoon, proposed to Roger that they take a walk to Truem Wright's grist mill. So they tramped up the street to where the mill stood on the edge of a pond.

They met quite a number of boys and girls carrying tin pails and books, and most of the youngsters spoke to Adrian as he passed them.

"Where are they from?" asked Roger.

"School's out."

"Oh, sure enough. I'd almost forgotten there was such a thing. But don't you go?"

"Not until winter sets in," said Adrian. "You see there's too much to do about the farm, and then I'm pretty well along in what they teach here. They're going to have a higher class for the older pupils in January, and I'll start in then."

The boys soon came to the mill.

"Hello, Ade!" cried a man, who seemed to be covered from head to foot with white dust. "Heard ye went fishin' yist'day," he went on. "Ketched a whale, didn't ye?" and he laughed so heartily that he almost shook the side of the building.

"Well, we did have some such luck," admitted Adrian. "But, say, Truem, can we come in? Are you running now? This is my cousin Roger, from New York."

"He were th' whale I were referrin' t'," said Mr. Wright, laughing again.

Roger smiled and bowed to the dusty miller, who held out a huge white hand for him to shake.

"Yep, come right in," said Mr. Wright, genially. "I'm grindin' a bit a' flour fer George Bennett."

The boys advanced into the dusty place, which shook and trembled with the whirring vibrations of the two big millstones. They watched these spinning around, grinding the wheat into a fine, light dust.

"What power does he use?" asked Roger, who was somewhat surprised to see no sign of an engine.

"Turbine water wheel," said Adrian. "Come along and I'll show you." He led the way to where, at the bottom of a deep pit, the turbine roared around and around with the weight and force of the water that fell on it from above, a dam giving the necessary head. This furnished the power for the entire mill. It was all very interesting to Roger, who had never seen anything of the kind. Before he realized how quickly time passed, it was almost the hour for supper, so he and Adrian raced home, both bearing good appetites.

CHAPTER VI

"I can't abide a poor eater," she said, as she heaped Roger's plate with the crisp brown chicken, fried in sweet butter, and handed him a plate of smoking hot golden-yellow corn bread. "I do like t' see a body pitch in 'n' eat th' victuals set afore 'em," she went on. "After a body goes t' work 'n' gits up a good meal, it's mighty disparagin' t' see th' things scorned down on. I'm glad t' see ye eat, Roger. Yer appetite's improved wonderful already. Yer uncle 'n' cousin usually don't need much urgin' in th' eatin' line," she added significantly, as she glanced at her husband's and son's well-heaped plates.

"I guess not," mumbled Mr. Kimball, picking up a nicely browned wing, and munching it with every indication of enjoyment. "I guess not, Mrs. Kimball."

Clara and her mother now sat down, and the meal progressed merrily. Roger almost forgot the homesickness that had twinged him once or twice during the day. The supper was about over when some one knocked at the kitchen door, opening it at the same time and calling out:

"I brought your mail, neighbor Kimball."

"Thanks, Enberry," said the farmer, as he got up to take several letters which Mr. Took had brought from the post-office. "Won't ye set down 'n' hev a bite, Enberry?"

"No, thanks; got t' do my chores yit. How's th' drowned boy?"

"Oh, I'm all right," called out Roger, "and I'm much obliged for getting me home so quick."

"Allers willin' t' do a neighborly turn," said Mr. Took, as he went out.

"Hello!" exclaimed Roger's uncle, looking at the addresses on the envelopes by the light of the kerosene lamp, "Hello! Here's a letter for you, Mr. Roger Anderson."

"It's from mother," cried the boy, as he caught sight of the beloved writing, and for a few minutes he paid no attention to what went on around him, as he read the news from the dear ones at home. It told him all were well, and how they missed him greatly.

"Take good care of yourself," Mrs. Anderson wrote, "and, though I shall miss you very much, though we all miss you, we hope your visit to Cardiff will do you good."

There was a little mist in the boy's eyes as he saw, in memory, the pleasant little circle about the table at home; his father reading, his mother sewing, and the baby building a wonderful house of blocks.

"Wa'al, what's th' news?" asked Mr. Kimball, in his deep hearty voice, and Roger told him what his mother had written.

It was not long before supper was over, and, while Mrs. Kimball and Clara were clearing away the dishes, Roger, with his uncle and cousin, went out to the barn, where, by the light of a lantern, the two wagons were loaded up, ready for an early start on the next day's trip. Mr. Kimball was to take his own horses and wagon to Syracuse with a load of produce, while Roger and Adrian would have Truem Wright's rig.

The last basket of grapes, the last crate of honey, and the celery, potatoes, and cabbage had been piled securely on the vehicles. Mr. Kimball pulled out his big silver watch.

"Hello!" he cried. "Nine o'clock. Time to go t' bed, fer we'll hev t' be up early in th' mornin'. Skedaddle, all on ye!"

The boys hurried to the house, laughing and shouting in anticipation of the pleasant trip next day.

That night Roger dreamed he was swimming in a big green pond, while a swarm of bees carrying bunches of grapes flew buzzing after him. He thought a whole hive of the insects were about to settle down on him, when he was caught by a big fish that shook him in its mouth as a dog might a rat. Then he awoke suddenly to find that the shaking was being done by his cousin Adrian, who stood bending over him, pulling him by the arm. A lamp burned in the room.

"What's the matter? Is the house afire?" asked Roger, as he jumped up in alarm.

"Land sakes, no," said Adrian, "but if we're going to Tully with the grapes, we'll have to start pretty soon. Dad went some time ago. Dress, and we'll have breakfast."

Roger looked out of the window while putting his clothes on. It was just getting faintly light, and some stars were still to be seen. From the kitchen there came the good smell of hot coffee and buckwheat cakes with fried sausage, and Roger knew his aunt was up.

While the boys were eating the excellent breakfast Mrs. Kimball set on the table, she put them up a good lunch in a basket, as they would not be home to dinner. In a short time they were ready for the start, and the wagon clattered out the side yard, Adrian driving the big white horse.

It was a pleasant trip to Tully, a town about eight miles from Cardiff. The first part of the journey was along the valley road, but at the upper end of this there began an ascent, which led up a steep hill to a sort of plateau on the small mountain top.

Past the scattered farmhouses they drove in the early dawn, and they had proceeded nearly a mile before the sun peeped up smiling from behind the hills, to send the gray, misty fog swirling lazily upward. The white horse pulled nobly up the incline, stopping now and then to rest at the "thank-'e-ma'ams," as certain places in the road were called; being mounds of earth dug across the highway, designed to prevent the too sudden rush of water down the hill during a rain. These hummocks served to divert the water to one side like a gutter, and also made good resting places, for they held the rear wheels of the wagon. At length the boys reached the top of the hill and started off on a level stretch for Tully, where Andrews Brothers had a store, at which Mr. Kimball sold considerable produce.

James Andrews, one of the brothers, was arranging some barrels of apples outside the place when Adrian drove up.

"Good morning, Mr. Andrews," called Adrian.

"Same to you," replied the store-keeper, heartily. "What brings you over here so early?"

"I've got that load of grapes you ordered of my father."

"Load of grapes?" with a puzzled air.

"Yes. Father got your letter, and he didn't have time to come over himself to-day, so I made the trip."

"But I didn't order any grapes—Oh, yes, I did, come to think of it; but, Ade, I didn't want 'em until next week. I said so in my letter. Let's see, to-day is the 18th. I ordered 'em for the 26th. Can't possibly use 'em this week, for I've got all I need. Sorry," as he saw the disappointed look on the boy's face. "Just tell your father if he looks at my letter he'll see I asked him to send a load over next week. Better try some of the other stores, they might need 'em."

"Well," said Adrian, slowly, "I s'pose you're right, Mr. Andrews, and father must have read your letter wrong. So I guess the only thing to do is to try to get rid of this load over at Smith's or Brown's."

"Don't forget I 'll want some a week from to-day," cautioned Mr. Andrews as Adrian drove off. "Be sure and tell your father."

"I will," called back Adrian.

Two rather sober-faced boys watched the white horse slowly jog along the Tully street. They had expected to unload the grapes, get the money and have a nice drive back, taking their time. But the wrong date had upset their plans. However there was a chance that Mr. Brown or Mr. Smith might need grapes, and the prospect of selling their produce there brightened matters for a little while. But their hopes were soon shattered, for, at both places, the supply of this fruit was large enough to last several days, though both proprietors said they would be in the market next week.

"Well," said Roger, slowly, as they turned about from a visit to the last store, "I suppose the only thing to do is to go back home."

"What? And with this load of grapes unsold?" exclaimed Adrian. "Not much! I came to Tully to sell them, and I'm going to do it."

"How?"

"By peddling them from house to house. Dad expects me back with the money for these, and I'm going to bring it if I can. You needn't help if you don't want to. I suppose you're not used to peddling, but I've done it before."

"Well, I guess I will help," replied Roger, a little hurt to think that his cousin felt he wouldn't stand by him in an emergency. "Here, we'll drive along, and I'll take one side of the street, and you can go on the other."

"That'll be just the thing," said Adrian.

So the two boys started in to get rid of the fruit. They went from house to house, carrying the baskets with the covers off to show the big red, white, and purple clusters. They inquired politely of the villagers whether they didn't need some freshly picked grapes, at ten or fifteen cents a basket, and, before they had been in half a dozen places each one had sold four. The bony old white horse jogged slowly along the road, contentedly stopping now and then to nibble a sweet bunch of grass.

At first Roger was a little bashful about going to houses peddling, for he had never done that sort of thing before. But he soon got the knack of it, and, though at several places the old ladies said they thought they wanted no fruit that day, he didn't mind the refusals. Adrian had good luck on his side of the road, and sold many baskets. By noon they had gone over all of the main and only street in Tully, and had disposed of a little more than half the load.

"I guess we can't sell any more here," said Adrian as he counted over his money.

"What'll we do? Go back home?"

"No, I guess we'll push on to Dagman's Corners. That's only four miles farther, and we can peddle some on the way. But, come to think of it, I'm hungry. Ain't you?"

"A little bit," admitted Roger with a laugh.

So the boys drove a short way out of the village, and pulled the white horse up along side of a grassy bank. After Adrian had fixed the oats, which they had brought with them, so that the patient nag could eat, he opened the lunch his mother had put up for him and Roger. There was a clear spring of water near by, and from this the boys and the horse drank. It was like a picnic instead of work, Roger thought, as he breathed in the pure, cool air, and felt his cheeks glowing in the October sun.

The meal over they took a brief rest, and then resumed the trip. In the next village they succeeded in disposing of all the remaining grapes, the dusty miller of the town taking the last four baskets. Thus, with about fifteen dollars snugly tucked away in his pocket, Adrian felt that he and Roger had accomplished something worth while, for he had received a little higher price for the fruit by peddling it around than if he had sold it to Mr. Andrews, who would have paid wholesale rates, while the boys had done business at retail.

"I don't call this bad," commented Adrian as he turned the horse for the journey home.

"I should say not," agreed Roger, heartily.

It was the first time he had ever taken an active part in any real business transactions, and it made him want to do more in that line when he saw how self-reliant Adrian had been in the trading.

When the boys reached Tully on the return trip it was five o'clock. They had eight miles to drive, but, as Adrian knew the road, he didn't mind the gathering darkness, though to Roger it seemed strange, for he had never driven in the country after nightfall. In the city it was very light after dark, but here in Cardiff it was almost as black as ink when twilight had faded, for there were no street lamps to dispel the gloom.

It was mostly down-hill going now, and the old white horse, knowing his stable and a manger full of oats was ahead of him, jogged rapidly along. It grew darker and darker, until, when they reached the top of the long slope of Tully hill, the last vestige of the slanting rays of the sun disappeared, and night had settled down. Calling cheerfully to the horse Adrian whistled a merry tune, and Roger joined in. Then they talked of various topics,—of the success of their trip, and what they would do to-morrow and next day.

"That's the last house in the village of Tully," said Adrian, suddenly, indicating a lonely cabin. "Pete Hallenbeck lives there, but he can't be home to-night, or there'd be a light in the window. He's lived all alone since his wife died. After we pass this there's not a place where anybody lives for three miles, until we get to the edge of Cardiff."

They went along for a mile or so, whistling and singing. Suddenly there was a jolt of the wagon, and Roger, who was sitting well toward the front of the seat, felt himself thrown forward with considerable force. Instinctively he stuck out his hands, and he felt them strike the broad haunches of the horse. Then, with a rattle and bang he kept on falling down until he had rolled out completely on the animal's back, and thence off to one side, into the soft grass along the road, where he lay stunned.

He could hear, as in a dream, Adrian faintly shouting to him, and then something seemed to flash by him. There was a confused rattle and rumble that grew fainter and fainter, and the blackness became more intense.

As if he was falling fast asleep he heard a voice calling: "Roger! Roger!"

Then his eyes seemed to close tightly and he knew nothing more, as he lay in a huddled heap on the ground.

CHAPTER VII

He rubbed his hands in the damp grass and drew them out dripping with dew. He dabbled this water on his forehead and felt better.

"I think the horse must have run away," he went on, "or else I'd see something of Adrian by this time, though it's as dark as a pocket here, and hard enough to locate your hand before your face, let alone somebody away down the road."

Roger listened intently, but could catch no sound of rattling wheels, nor the beating of a horse's hoofs, which might have indicated that the wagon was coming back. All about was silence and darkness. The boy tried again to stand up, and found that his momentary weakness had passed.

"I guess I'd better walk on until I meet Adrian," he said to himself. "He'll be sure to be coming back soon," and he started off in the direction he thought was toward Cardiff.

Now if Roger had lived all his life in the country, or if he had been more familiar with the road, he probably would have had no trouble in starting on the right way back home. Very likely he would have done so instinctively; or he might have gotten his bearings from the stars, which shone overhead, though somewhat dimly. As it was, he became confused in the darkness, and, owing to a slight dizziness caused by his fall, instead of going toward Cardiff, he began walking back toward Tully.

He was a little sore and stiff at first, but, as he went on, this disappeared, and he stepped out briskly enough. He thought he would not have far to go before meeting his cousin, but, as he walked farther and farther, he commenced to wonder what had become of Adrian. But then, he reassured himself, perhaps Adrian had had some trouble in bringing the old white horse to a stop, though the animal had not seemed to be such a mettlesome steed.

"But I'll meet him soon, now," said Roger, trying to comfort himself.

He could feel the soft dusty road under his feet, and its whiteness was like a big indistinct chalk mark on a large blackboard, as it came faintly through the darkness. But, somehow or other, in a little while the white mark seemed to be fading away. It grew so dim that even by the hardest squinting of the eyes, it could no longer be seen. It appeared also that the character of the road was changing. It was no longer dusty and soft, but hard, and firm, and, instead of going down hill, Roger found himself ascending the grade.

"Hold on!" exclaimed the boy, "this is queer. I must have turned around."

He came to a sudden stop. Was he off the road? Was he lost? He hurriedly searched through his pockets and found a single match. Here was something that would aid him, though ever so slightly. With unsteady fingers he struck the little fire-stick. It flared up, sputtered and flickered, and, a second later, blazed brightly. Holding it above his head, so the glow might light all around him, he peered about in the gloom which was but faintly illuminated by the tiny flame.

What was his terror to see, on every side of him, a tall and thick undergrowth of bushes and lofty trees. Beneath his feet was a narrow path, while the forest appeared to meet above his head in a black arch. Then, with a start, he realized he was lost; lost on the mountain, lost in the dense woods about Cardiff. He did not know which way to turn.

Now if Roger had been an older boy or a sturdy country lad, he would have laughed at the plight in which he found himself,—laughed a bit and then tramped on and sat down, to wait until morning. But, as it was, Roger was never more frightened in his life. Once he had been lost in New York, when he was a little chap. But a big policeman had picked him up and taken him to a precinct station-house, where he was kept until his father, missing him, came after the lost boy.

But out here in the country there were no blue-coated officers on the lookout for lost people. There were no police stations, no street lights, no lights at all, in fact, save the little flicker that had died away when Roger's single match went out.

When the last spark had become dim the boy's breath came with a gasp. He wanted to run away from the blackness, but where could he flee to escape it, for it was all about him. He felt like crying out; like shouting for help. Then he suddenly recalled something his father had once said to him.

"Roger, if you ever find yourself in danger, in a fire, or in any position where you feel you'll lose your presence of mind, just stop, and count ten. Then you'll be able to think calmly, and be able to help yourself, and perhaps others."

This came back to the boy like a flash. He resolved to put it into practice. Slowly he counted—1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10. He said each number in a loud voice. Even hearing his own tones did him good, and, before he had reached the "nine" he felt himself growing calmer. At the end he was less frightened, and he could think more clearly. Then he began to reason, and before he knew it, he was turning a plan over in his mind.

"I must have branched off the road into a path that goes through the woods," he said, "and, at the same time, I must have got turned around, and gone up hill, instead of down. Now let's see. If I turn back and walk in just the opposite direction from which I'm facing now, and if I am careful to keep going down hill, and stay in this path until I strike the road again, I'll probably come out safely. So, then, right about face! Forward, march!" He executed the command and started off bravely in the other direction.

Roger now went along more slowly. He was cautious about where he set his feet, that he might not stray from the path, and occasionally he stooped down, and with his hands he felt the dirt under foot, to be positive he was on the hard, packed path and not travelling over the wood-carpet. He was in better spirits now and was sure he was going back the right way. He even began to whistle a little tune and already saw himself safe in his uncle's house, laughing with Adrian over their adventure.

But when he had gone on for some time in this way, there came over him a nameless sense of disquietude. After all, was he really retracing his steps, or was he advancing deeper into the woods? If he had a match or two he could have easily seen his position. But he had not one. However, he reflected, the nature of the ground he was travelling over might now be of assistance to him. He leaned over again to feel of the way. As he did so he brushed against some low-hanging branches of the trees, and then, when his hand came in contact with the earth, Roger was startled to find it met neither the hard packed clay of the path, nor the dust of the road, but the dead leaves, the little twigs and broken limbs of trees, and the soft moss of the forest.

Now, indeed, he knew he was fairly lost, and, when he stopped, and listened intently, he heard, all around him, the rustle of the foliage, the creaking of the boughs and the rattle of the branches of the deep woods. He had now absolutely no sense of direction, no knowledge of which way to turn. He caught his breath with a gasp, and then, feeling his legs giving way beneath him, he put out his hands, which came sharply up against a tree trunk, as he sank down on a fallen log.

For a few minutes Roger thought the fierce beating of his heart would smother him. Then, realizing he must play the man now, he shut his lips firmly, clenched his hands, and stared determinedly into the blackness that was all around him.

"What a baby I am," he said. "All I have to do is to sit here until it's light. Then I can easily get back into the path, or some one will find me. That's what I'll do. I'll not move from this spot until I can see where I am going."

So he made himself as comfortable as possible on the log, turned up his coat collar, for it was cold, braced his back against the tree, and made ready to sit out his vigil until morning. His first fear over, he now looked upon the occurrence as a sort of queer little adventure.

"It will be something to write to mother about," he said, as he pulled his hat on tightly.

For perhaps half an hour the boy sat there. He thought of all sorts of things,—of his father, of his mother, and his little brother at home—of how he had come to Cardiff. He went over all that he and Adrian had done since he arrived.

Then he began to nod; a little at first, then more and more, until he caught himself falling forward, almost asleep.

"My, my! I mustn't go off like this," he said, rubbing his eyes. "It won't do to take a snooze here."

For a time he fought off the drowsiness, only to find it coming over him more and more strongly. Oh, how nice it was out here in the woods. There was a gentle wind, the leaves seemed to rustle and whisper to him. Ah! He was floating away—away—off—off—to the land—of nod—to—the—land—of—nod—the—land—of—nod—nod—nod!

Then! Roger was fast asleep!

No! Not asleep! He was on the verge. Just going to tumble over into the finest feather bed he ever knew, when there was a noise that sounded like a clap of thunder.

Crash!

Roger sat up, clutching the tree, against which he leaned, with a grip of terror. His heart was going like a trip-hammer. There was the echo of a great roaring in his ears. For a second he could not tell where he was. Then came another noise, less loud.

Snap!

Ah! It was only the breaking of a twig. He calmed down. But what did it mean? Somebody must be coming to find him. Of course, that was it. Adrian and his father were searching.

Roger leaped to his feet. He peered into the darkness.

"Here I am, Adrian!" he called. "Here I am! Hey! Here's Roger!"

The echo of his own cry was the only answer. Then came another crackle of the twigs, as if some one was approaching nearer. Roger strained his eyes into the black depths of the forest. He could make out nothing.

Then, as he kept his gaze fixed on one spot, he saw something which seemed to chill his heart. It was two small balls of greenish-red fire, and they looked right at him. At the same time there came to the boy's ears the sound of an angry snarl.

CHAPTER VIII

Just then the whole forest seemed to be flooded with a soft light that stole in among the trees and sifted down through the leaves. It was the moon that had risen high enough above the hills to give its illumination to the scene. By the glowing beams Roger could make out the animal about fifteen feet from him, crouching low on a fallen tree. It was a beast perhaps two feet long, with a tail that swished from side to side, and it had little short ears that seemed pointed toward him, to catch the sound of any movement he might make. He could see the paws with which the wild-cat, for such he knew it must be, held its position on the log, by digging the knife-like claws into the soft bark. He could see the little chips and slivers fly off, while the growls changed to a half-whining cry.

For a moment the boy looked about in desperation, seeking which way to flee. Off to the left he seemed to observe a little larger opening between the trees than anywhere else. He sprang toward it with a bound.

Ere he had gone a dozen steps, stumbling in the half darkness over sticks and stones, the wild-cat turned quickly, and with a light leap was before him, waiting, waiting, waiting. The boy stopped short with a shudder. He was very much afraid. Though the beast was not large, and though it did not impress him half as much as did the tigers and lions he had seen in Central Park, yet there was something terrifying in the calm way it faced him.

It appeared to know there was nothing between itself and the defenceless boy, and that no help was at hand. Though the beast was not half as big as Roger, he knew the sharp claws and sharper teeth would cause death, if once the animal got up courage enough to attack him. That this was its intention the boy had no doubt, though he was sure the wild-cats to be found in the mountains about Cardiff were more a danger and menace to chickens and lambs than to human beings. The brutes were usually too cowardly to attack man. But perhaps the night, the smallness of the boy and his apparent terror had made the cat devoid of fear. At any rate, it seemed to Roger to be ugly and bold enough to spring at him any minute.

Foiled in his plan to escape, the boy returned to the log where he had been sitting. This was close against a big tree, and he felt that, with his back to this, he was, in some measure, protected; at least from an attack in the rear. As he retraced his steps the cat kept pace with him, until both boy and beast were in the same relative positions they had first occupied.

Roger now saw that it was to be a battle between himself and the wild-cat, and he nerved himself for the fight. Had he dared, he would have turned and run, but he seemed to see the cat come bounding after him, with big leaps and jumps, and crouching for a final spring upon his back. Then he recalled, with a shudder, what he had read of the terrible tearing power of the claws of these animals. So there was but one thing to do with any hope of success. That was to stand and fight off the beast as long as possible. But what weapons had he? He hurriedly felt in his pockets and all he could find was a small knife, which he knew would be of little use when it came to close quarters. A stick, a club, or a stone would be of more service. Yes, that would be better; a club, so Roger stooped down, and while he kept his eyes fastened on the cat he groped about on the ground with his hands to see what was there. He felt his fingers close over a stout cudgel, and he rose, grasping it firmly, and stood with his feet braced for the shock. He was less frightened now that he had some sort of a weapon, poor as it was, and he knew he could meet the attack on more even terms.

And it was high time he had thus prepared, for the cat now crouched lower than before on the log and its claws worked more quickly, as Roger could see by the light of the moon, which had risen higher.

He noticed the short ears pointed forward on the ugly head and the parted lips disclosed the sharp white teeth. There was a convulsive tremor of the lithe body, and then, from the opened mouth came a cry so dismal, so weird and terrifying to the boy that he shivered in fear, and felt his heart go thumping away under his ribs. The next instant the wild-cat launched itself forward with a spring, straight at the boyish figure that stood ready to meet it.

With a quick motion Roger lifted the short, heavy club, and then, as he saw the beast directly in front of him, he gave a half turn, so that the animal would sail past to the left. At the same time he brought the stick down with all his force, aiming at the ugly head. He missed this spot, but struck just behind it, as the brute passed him, and so close was the cat that the claws in its nearest hind leg caught the lower part of the boy's coat and tore it as if a sharp knife had cut it. The brute landed some five feet beyond Roger, letting out a mingled howl of pain and rage.

But the fight had only begun, and Roger knew if the wild thing returned to the attack with the energy it had displayed at first he could scarcely hope to beat it off again. However, the animal seemed disposed to practise a little caution now and to be a trifle wary about repeating its jump. The boy turned partly around and saw the beast come to a sudden stop. Then it swung about and, making a little circle, ran quickly and leaped lightly upon the fallen log, where it crouched, ready for another spring.

But now Roger seemed to feel the deadly fear leaving him, and he almost rejoiced in the thought of the battle that was to come, even though he knew it was likely to result badly for himself. He had passed through the first scrimmage and, like a soldier who has once been under fire, he almost wished for another skirmish in the struggle.

He watched the animal with sharp eyes and was glad to find the light increasing, as the moon rose more above the trees, though the leaves through which the beams came made uncertain shadows. Then the boy detected some movement on the part of the beast and saw that the cat, instead of crouching for another spring, had crawled out on the log toward the end that was in deepest gloom.

"I wonder what he's up to now?" said Roger, softly.

He could hear the brute leap on the soft wood-carpet of moss and dried leaves, and then the grayish body seemed to fade away. But Roger knew the animal had not left him. It was trying to sneak up behind him, so as to leap on his back, he felt, and the boy turned to face in that direction. As he did so he heard a noise near the log where the cat had just been crouching, and he turned quickly to catch a glimpse of the long slender form passing rapidly by in the semi-darkness. For a moment Roger was puzzled, and then it came to him like a flash. The beast was racing about him in a circle!

He did not know what to do, and while he hesitated sorely alarmed, with the fear tugging at his heart again, the cat passed in front of him once more.

Only this time the animal was farther from the log and nearer to the boy. Roger knew that the brute would narrow the circles until it was close enough to spring at him, and, under these circumstances, it was impossible to tell from which point the dangerous leap might come. Surely the boy was in grave danger now, and he felt it keenly. He backed up close against the tree, but this was scarcely any protection, as the trunk was not large enough. Yet he dared not leave it to seek another.

The cat continued to run about him in ever smaller curves. Roger raised his club and waited in an agony of suspense—waited to see the tense body come sailing toward him—waited to feel the sharp claws and cruel teeth.

Up to this moment he had held the club in one hand, but, thinking to use it with greater force, he now took hold with both right and left. As he did so, he noticed that in his left hand he still held his knife. He was about to cast it from him, not wanting to risk putting it in his pocket, when his fingers touched something that seemed to be caught in the slot-like opening of the handle where the blades went. The knife was a two-bladed one, but the smaller bit of steel had been broken off, and, where this should have fitted Roger was conscious that something had lodged in the handle. He hurriedly felt of it.

It was a match!

How his heart thrilled. Here was a means of safety. Wild animals fear a blaze. With this match which he had found so unexpectedly he could kindle a fire.

Now he had a chance of holding the wild-cat at bay until morning. With his feet he scraped together some dry leaves into a little heap. Then, watching until the animal had once more passed between him and the log, he stooped over.

But, after all, there was only a slim chance in his favor. The match might be a burned one, it might miss fire, or go out before he had an opportunity to kindle the leaves, or the leaves themselves might be too damp to burn. All these thoughts came to him on the instant. But there was no time to lose. He struck the match on the leg of his trousers. It sputtered, fused, and flared brightly. Then it almost died away, and Roger's heart grew like lead. A little wind sprang up and threatened to extinguish the tiny flame. But though it almost left the wood it did not blow off altogether, and once again it burned strongly.

Roger leaned over toward the pile of debris. He held the match to it. Some of the dried foliage hissed and smoked, for it was damp. But a little wisp of dried grass caught. This blazed up with a crackle. The flames communicated to the leaves, which soon began to ignite, though not brightly, and with more smoke than fire. How anxiously did the boy watch them, for it meant safety, if not life, to him. His heart seemed almost to be suffocating him with its beating. Then the dried stuff caught the flames well and burned with a spurt of fire and sparks.

The next instant there was a rush from behind Roger. He half turned and rose from his stooping position over the blaze. There came whizzing through the air the body of the beast, as if shot from a catapult.

Its forepaws struck the boy on the shoulders, and he could feel, for a half second, the prick of the sharp claws through his coat. The force of the leap threw him forward, and though he tried to save himself, though he bravely endeavored to strike the beast with his club, he felt himself sinking beneath the weight of the cat. He hit the ground with considerable force, close to the fire, so near, indeed, that the flames, which had increased, felt hot on his face.