THE WHITE CRYSTALS

Being an Account of the Adventures of Two Boys

BY HOWARD R. GARIS

AUTHOR OF "WITH FORCE AND ARMS," "THE KING OF UNADILLA," "THE WHETSTONE OF SWORDS," ETC., ETC.

WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
BERTHA CORSON DAY

BOSTON
LITTLE, BROWN, AND COMPANY
1904

Copyright, 1904,
By Little, Brown, and Company.

All rights reserved

Published October, 1904

TO
MY SON ROGER
THIS BOOK IS AFFECTIONATELY DEDICATED

"'No, sir,' replied Mrs. Kimball, firmly, 'I won't sign'"

CONTENTS

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

THE WHITE CRYSTALS

CHAPTER I

THE DOCTOR'S ADVICE

Dr. Glasby looked over the rims of his spectacles at the boy before him. Then he glanced at Mr. Anderson, cleared his throat with a loud "ahem" that made Roger start, and said, very ponderously:

"Um!"

"Well?" asked Mr. Anderson, a little anxious tone coming into his voice, "what's the verdict, doctor?"

"Um!" said the physician again. "Nothing very serious, Mr. Anderson. Roger, here, is a little run down, that's all. He's been studying too hard, his eyes are a trifle weak, muscles flabby, and his blood hasn't enough of the good red stuff in it. In short, he must live out of doors for a year or so, and then I'll guarantee he will come back with red cheeks and a pair of arms that will make you proud of him. Eh, Roger?" and Dr. Glasby pinched the rather small and soft biceps of the boy, smiling the while, good naturedly.

"No disease, then, doctor?" from Mr. Anderson.

"Nothing, my dear sir, except a general poor condition of the system."

"Don't he need medicine, a tonic, or something? His mother and I are quite worried about him."

"Not a drop of medicine for this patient," exclaimed Dr. Glasby. "Fresh air, fresh country air, and more air. That's all."

The physician turned aside to replace the apparatus he had used; the stethoscope, with which he had listened to the beating of Roger's heart, the eye-testing mirrors and lights, and the lung-cylinder, into which the boy had blown more feebly than Dr. Glasby had liked to see.

"Then your prescription is—?" began Mr. Anderson.

"Have him drop his books and studies, stop school, at least for a year, and get out into the country. You'll have to see for yourself that it is put up, for no drug store could supply those ingredients. Can you arrange it?"

"I think so, doctor. I'll try, anyhow," and, with a hearty handshake, while his face wore a more relieved look than when he entered the office, Mr. Anderson left Dr. Glasby, taking Roger with him.

The journey home was rather a quiet one between Roger and his father. They boarded a surface car on Broadway, and, as it swung along through the turmoil of this principal New York street, they were thinking of what they had just heard. Moving now fast and now slow, according to the obstructions of trucks on the tracks, the car clanged on its way. Once it stopped short, suddenly, to allow a spark-emitting fire engine and a swaying truck with long ladders to dash by to a blaze. Then Roger leaped to his feet, watching, as long as possible, the exciting rush of the red-helmeted and rubber-coated men, his eyes brightening as he noted the plunging, rearing horses.

"Let's get out and go to the fire!" he called to his father.

"Not now, son," answered Mr. Anderson. "Your mother will be anxious to hear what Dr. Glasby said, and we don't want to delay and cause her worry, you know."

"All right," agreed Roger, with just a little disappointment in his tone, for he did want to see the fire. But he soon forgot that in wondering what would happen if he didn't have to go to school for a whole year. The suggestion contained such possibilities that he was lost in a maze with plans of what he would do with his time.

Meanwhile the car continued along more rapidly, and it was not a great while before father and son reached home. Then, as Roger helped his five-year-old brother Edward to build a castle out of blocks, Mr. Anderson told his wife the result of the visit to Dr. Glasby. She was much relieved when she learned there was nothing serious the matter with her son, and there was a happy look in her eyes as she glanced at her two boys playing together on the floor.

The Andersons lived in a large but pleasant apartment house on the "west side," as it is called in New York. It was on Thirty-third Street, just west of Ninth Avenue, along which thoroughfare the elevated railroad passed. It was so near this, that in warm weather, when the windows were open nights, Roger could hear the rattle of the trains and the clatter and hum of the electric motor cars. In fact it was quite a noisy place, where Roger lived, but no one in the neighborhood seemed to mind it, or, if they did, they had grown so used to it that they never spoke of it. Of course there was no yard, and no place to play, except in the street, for space is too valuable in New York to have yards to houses. But there was the flat roof of the big apartment, where scores of families lived, and Roger and his boy friends sometimes enjoyed their sports up there.

Roger Anderson was just past his fifteenth year, rather small for his age, and not nearly as strong and sturdy as his parents wished he was. Lately his eyes had been troubling him, and he had complained of frequent headaches. He was in his first season at high school, and what, with taking up Latin and algebra, two new worlds of study for the boy, he had been rather closely applied to his books at night. As he was ambitious he threw himself into the vim of learning with an energy that was pleasing to his parents and teachers, though it had a bad effect on his health. For, after a few weeks of school, it was noticed that he was failing in energy. There were many days when, in spite of his desire, he felt disinclined to go to his classes, and he was troubled with dizziness. In short he seemed in such poor shape that Mr. Anderson determined on a visit to Dr. Glasby, the old family physician. That night, after the consultation with the medical man, when Roger had gone to bed, his father and mother sat up to talk the matter over.

"I don't like to think of his losing a year's schooling," said Mr. Anderson, as he thought how valuable education was.

"Better that than to have him get really ill and have to stop altogether," replied Mrs. Anderson.

Both were silent a few minutes, turning the question over in their minds.

"I suppose we should follow Dr. Glasby's advice as soon as possible," said Mrs. Anderson, at length. "I wonder what we ought to do. Where can we send him? Oh dear! I don't at all like the idea of his going away from us. I just know he'll sit about in damp shoes, and his buttons will all come off, for they are always loose, and no one to sew them on."

"Well," said Mr. Anderson, a little twinkle in his eyes, "losing buttons isn't to be compared to having one's health break down, and, as for wet shoes, he can take pairs enough along to change whenever he gets in the water. Still I must confess I don't like to think of Roger being away from us, but he'll have to leave home some day, I suppose, and there's nothing like getting used to it. I went away from my home when I was fourteen years old."

"It was different when you were a boy," said Mrs. Anderson, and her husband smiled, while he wondered how it was.

"Where do you suppose we can send him?" went on Mr. Anderson. "Dr. Glasby says a year in the country. Now we can't afford to pay heavy expenses, yet I am determined the boy shall have a free run in the fresh air, and live out doors for a change."

Mrs. Anderson thought for a moment.

"I have it!" she cried, suddenly. "He can go to his Uncle Bert's, at Cardiff. It will be the very thing for him, and when you get your vacation next summer we can all go up there and see him."

Mr. Anderson hesitated a minute, for that idea had never come to him.

"I believe it will be a good plan," he said heartily. "Yes, I'm sure it will. I'm glad you thought of it. We'll send Roger to Cardiff."

Thus it was settled that Roger was to give up his studies, which announcement, when he heard it next morning, made him both glad and sorry.

It was a fine day in October, and school had been in session a little more than a month of the fall term. The visit to the doctor had been made on Saturday. Sunday was spent in talking over the subject more fully in the Anderson household, and in writing a letter to "Albertus Kimball, Esq., Cardiff, Onondaga County, N. Y." This man was Mrs. Anderson's farmer brother. On Monday, instead of going to school, Roger accompanied his father down town, where they did considerable shopping in the way of buying some clothing and underwear for the boy's outfit. Mr. Anderson also got a stout valise, and filled it with articles he thought his son might need. Then, rather tired with tramping about, they had dinner in a busy restaurant on Barclay Street, much to Roger's delight, for he seldom ate in such places, and it was quite a treat to order just what he liked best.

After lunch Mr. Anderson went to the high school where his son was enrolled, to give notice to the principal of Roger's withdrawal.

They arrived just before school assembled for the afternoon session, and, while Mr. Anderson was talking with Mr. Blake, the principal, Roger wandered into the familiar court-yard, where he met a number of classmates.

"Going to leave, eh?" they all questioned as the news got around. "Say, Roger, you're a lucky chap. I wish my father would take me out of school."

"I believe I'd rather stay," said Roger.

"Oh, cut that out! What you giving us!" called several, sincerely, if not politely.

"No, I would, really," insisted Roger, and he honestly meant it, though he could not help feeling a little important over the small excitement he was creating among his companions. Still he did like his studies very much, for he was just beginning to appreciate the inspiration of Virgil, the wonders of the science work, and the sturdy exactness of algebraic equations.

A few minutes later Mr. Anderson came out of Mr. Blake's office, and the two men walked over to where Roger stood. Mr. Blake shook hands with him, gravely, and, while expressing regret that his pupil was leaving school, agreed that it was best, under the circumstances. He hoped to see Roger back again, he said, much improved in health, and, with cheery good-byes from his companions, the boy walked out of the school-yard with his father. There was just the trace of tears in Roger's eyes, which he hoped his father wouldn't see, for, after all, it was rather hard to leave such a lot of fine chums as he had.

For the next few days there were busy times in the Anderson home. Such an overhauling of Roger's clothes, such a sewing on of buttons, double strong, almost enough for a small army of boys, such a darning of stockings, and a mending of rents in coats and trousers, and such admonition and advice as his mother gave him, from never forgetting to say his prayers, to not neglecting to clean his teeth. For he had never been away from his parents before, in all his short life, and it was a momentous occasion.

The novelty of the affair, and the anticipation of adventures in store for him, kept Roger from thoughts that he might possibly be lonesome or homesick, after he had started away. Under the stimulus of preparation he even began to feel better in health. His pale cheeks showed a little color, and his head had not ached since he had been to the doctor's.

On Thursday a letter came from Uncle Bert, telling Mrs. Anderson to send Roger right along; that they would all try to make him comfortable and happy. So it was arranged he was to start next Monday night, and, to Mrs. Anderson, the time, until then, seemed altogether too short, though, boylike, Roger thought the intervening days would never pass. His ticket had been purchased, his valise packed, and by Sunday night everything was in readiness. At church that day the boy felt his eyes grow a little misty as the choir sang the solemn songs, but he made up his mind that he must play the part of a man now, at least as far as appearances went. So he gulped down the lump in his throat.

The train was to leave the Grand Central Station of the New York Central Railroad at nine o'clock Monday night. The last arrangements had been made, and Mr. Anderson prepared to accompany his son to the depot.

"Bwing me back suffin' nice, Roggy," called little Edward, sleepily, as he put up his cheek to be kissed.

"I will, Eddie, I will," said Roger, his voice trembling a bit, in spite of his determination to be firm. He cuddled his baby brother close to him.

"Now be very careful, my boy," said Mrs. Anderson, for at least the twentieth time. "Clean your teeth every day, and change your shoes as soon as you get your feet wet."

Her motherly eyes showed a suspicious brilliancy, and her voice was not as steady as it usually sounded. She hugged Roger closely to her, and gave him a kiss that he long remembered, and then, with a broken good-bye, she turned and went into the house, while Roger and Mr. Anderson started for the station.

They stepped out briskly, boarded a surface car, and were soon rattling toward Forty-second Street, where the depot was located. Roger was to take a train for Syracuse, a city twelve miles from Cardiff, to which village he would go by wagon or stage. There was plenty of time before nine o'clock, but Mr. Anderson believed in being a little ahead of a train, instead of behind it. He didn't give his son much advice, for he knew Mrs. Anderson had said all there was to say, and he realized that Roger was a boy who didn't need to be cautioned after what his mother had told him.

The train Roger was to go in had already been made up, and the porter showed him to his place in the sleeping-car, where he had a lower berth.

"Now, my boy," said Mr. Anderson, looking at his watch, "you have ten minutes before starting time. I think I'll leave you, as you are in good shape here, and I want to get back to your mother. I know you will get along nicely, and I needn't say I know you'll do what's right, at all times, for I'm sure you will. Your Uncle Bert will meet you in Syracuse, when you arrive there in the morning, and you don't have to change cars. The porter will look after you occasionally. Now, good-bye," and with a hearty handshake Mr. Anderson left Roger alone.

CHAPTER II

THE SALT CITY

With a toot of the whistle, a squeak of the wheels and a sharp hissing, as the air brakes were released, the train started. The journey was uneventful, no delays or accidents occurring to mar it. About eleven o'clock the porter made up Roger's berth, and, though the boy wondered at the novelty of a bed on what looked much like a shelf, he soon fell asleep, and did not wake up until the sun was a half hour high, which time found him within a few miles of Syracuse.

The colored porter, grinning expansively and good naturedly, for he had been well remembered by Mr. Anderson, brought Roger a steaming hot cup of coffee, which was most agreeable.

"What time do we get in?" asked the boy traveller as he sipped the beverage.

"We'd ought a' be in at 7.42," replied the colored man, "but we's a leetle late this mornin', sah. Probably we'll arrive 'bout eight o'clock. Feelin' purty peart this mornin', sah?"

"Yes, I do feel pretty good," replied Roger, who really did seem better than he had in some weeks. "I didn't think I'd sleep much, but I did."

"Oh, these here is great beds fo' sleepin'," commented the porter, grinning once more, and causing Roger to wonder, if he smiled any larger, whether the top of his head wouldn't come off.

It was just ten minutes past eight when the train rolled along one of the main streets of Syracuse, and into the dingy depot, near the centre of the city. Roger was out on the vestibuled platform before the wheels stopped screeching under the force of the brakes. He was watching among the crowd under the shed for a tall man, with a big nose, a light sandy moustache and bright blue eyes, for thus his mother had described his Uncle Bert to him. He looked at several men.

The first one had everything but the blue eyes. The second one all the characteristics save the sandy moustache. But the third man, on whom he fixed his attention, Roger knew was Mr. Kimball. He waved his hand, and was glad to see the man wave back. The next minute the train stopped, and the blue-eyed uncle was ready to reach up for his nephew.

"Is this here Roger Anderson?" came from beneath the light sandy moustache, in a pleasant though high-pitched voice.

"I'm Roger; are you Uncle Bert?" asked the boy.

"Wa'al, I reckon thet's what! Guessed ye th' fust time, didn't I," and this fact seemed to give Mr. Kimball so much pleasure that he laughed with a heartiness which made several smile.

"Wa'al now, but d'ye know, I'm glad t' see ye! Ye're a leetle late, but land love ye, comin' three hunderd miles is no joke. I calalate I'd be a trifle behindhand myself. Now, let's hev yer satchel, 'n' we'll go 'n' git some breakfust. I ain't eat yit. Ye see I come out from Cardiff yist'day, hevin' t' do some tradin', 'n' I stayed over night at th' Candee House, so's t' be on hand t' meet ye. I told th' waiter at my table I'd hev a hungry boy back 'ith me soon. Ye be hungry, ain't ye?" with rather an anxious look at Roger.

"Well, not so very," admitted the boy, wondering a little at the strange sounding talk of his uncle, who spoke the central New York farmers' homely but comprehensive dialect.

"Oh, shucks now!" exclaimed Mr. Kimball. "I were calalatin' on seein' ye race 'ith me eatin' ham 'n' eggs 'n' bread 'n' butter," and he seemed a bit disappointed. "Howsomever we'll remedy thet when we git ye out t' Cardiff. 'Fore ye've been thar a week I'll hev ye eatin' salt-risin' bread, covered 'ith butter 'n' honey—say 'j ever tackle real fresh salt-risin' bread, spread thick 'ith nice brown buckwheat honey, right outen th' hives?"

"I never did," confessed Roger.

"Wa'al, then, ye've got a lot a' pleasure ahead on ye," remarked Mr. Kimball, "thet's all I've got t' say. But Land o' Goshen, here I be talkin', 'stid a leadin' th' way t' th' hotel. Come 'long now, 't ain't fer," and they started off in lively fashion, while Roger wondered what sort of a man his uncle was.

Though he did not eat a hearty meal, the boy, under the eyes of Mr. Kimball, made out quite a breakfast, while his companion put away a hearty one, with evident relish. The waiter was kept busy, and Roger wondered vaguely how a man could drink so many cups of coffee as his uncle did; no less than four large ones being disposed of.

"We don't start back 'til three o'clock," said Mr. Kimball, using his napkin rapidly. "Porter Amidown's stage leaves then. I'd a druv out 'ith th' Democrat wagin, but it needs a new wheel, so I calalated I'd better come in 'n' go out by th' stage."

"Is that Democratic too?" asked Roger, who, like nearly every New York boy, was of the political faith of his father, who was a Republican.

"Democrat? Th' stage Democrat? Land no, Porter's a rip-snortin' Prohib. Oh, I see, ye thought my wagin was a Democrat one, 'stid a' bein' Republican. Ha! ha! Why we call them vehicles thet name, not 'cause they're in politics, but jist t' hev a way a' speakin' 'bout 'em, thet's all, same's a phaeton er runabout. Th' stage a Democrat! Ho! ho! Don't ye let Porter hear ye say thet," and Mr. Kimball seemed quite tickled over Roger's natural mistake.

"So's we don't start back 'til three o'clock," he went on, occasionally chuckling over the joke, "we'll hev some time t' do a leetle tradin', fer I didn't finish yist'day. Thet'll give ye a chanst t' look around th' city. Ade, he's yer cousin, ye know, wanted me t' bring him 'long, but I calalated there'd be trouble ef I did, so I left him hum. He'd want ye t' rassal right here in th' street."

"Rassal?" inquired Roger, wondering what was meant.

"Yep, rassal. Ketch 's ketch kin, collar 'n' elbow, ye know. Ade 's dead set on rassalin'. Do ye do it much?"

"No," said Roger, "I'm not much good at wrestling," and he began to be a little apprehensive as to the character of his cousin Adrian.

"Wa'al, ye'll hev t' rassal 'ith him when ye git hum," remarked Mr. Kimball, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "He's allers a rassalin' all th' boys, th' hired men, 'n' so on."

"Is he pretty strong?" asked Roger.

"Tol'able, jest tol'able," replied Mr. Kimball. "But ye needn't worry, he'll let ye alone ef he finds out he kin throw ye. He never rassals th' second time 'ith anybody he kin throw, lessen it's fer practice. He's allers tryin' t' tackle some un a leetle better 'n' what he is. Wants t' git a reputation, he says. His mother says he wants t' git a busted neck, 'n' say, d' ye know," and Mr. Kimball whispered, "sometimes I think she's more 'n' half right, I do, honest Injun, I do," and he shook his head warningly.

"Wa'al, I guess we might 's well be goin'," he remarked, after a pause, and he led the way from the dining-room.

Mr. Kimball had several places where he wanted to do some trading. He had to buy some dress goods for his wife, a book for Adrian, some sewing silk for his daughter Clara, and some tools for himself. He finished by noon, and after dinner he asked Roger if he didn't want to pay a visit to the salt works, for which Syracuse is noted.

"Indeed, I'd like to go, first rate," said the boy.

So they walked up to the northern part of the pretty town, where, stretched out in the sun, were the big shallow wooden vats for the evaporation of the brine which was pumped into them. On the way through the works Mr. Kimball explained how the salt springs were underneath the ground on which they were walking, and how the brine was brought to the surface of the earth by machinery. Then it was left for the sun to draw off the water, leaving behind the shining particles that formed the salt of commerce.

The place was filled with buildings, large and small, with pumps, engines and vats, with sheds about which hurried scores of men, and Roger took a great interest looking at everything. He never knew before what a lot of salt came from Syracuse, nor what an important industry it was in the trade of the world, and particularly of New York State.

"My, but we'll hev t' hustle," remarked Mr. Kimball, suddenly, looking at his big silver watch. "It's nigh two o'clock, 'n' Porter leaves at three smack. I guess we'll postpone the rest a' th' salt investigation 'til another time."

So Roger and his uncle made a hurried trip to the Candee House, from which the stage started. They reached it with about five minutes to spare, which Mr. Kimball used in getting together his packages and Roger's baggage, and putting them all snugly in the lumbering vehicle. As he finished, the stage driver came out to see to the hitching up of the horses.

"Porter, this is my nephew I were tellin' ye of," said Mr. Kimball.

Mr. Amidown looked Roger over carefully.

"Leetle spindlin', ain't he?" he suggested after a pause.

"Wa'al, he ain't's stout's he will be when we git through 'ith him," replied Mr. Kimball with a hearty laugh, as he poked Porter playfully in the ribs. Then he helped Roger up to the high seat, and followed nimbly himself. There was a crack of the long whip, a rattle of the harness chains, a rumble of the wheels and the stage started off.

There were several other passengers making the trip from Syracuse by stage that day, but Roger and his uncle were the only ones on the outside. The big wagon rolled along, first on the asphalt streets, under tall elm and maple trees that lined the thoroughfares, where the houses were so close together that they reminded the boy of New York. Then the residences became more scattered, and farther and farther apart, as the suburbs were reached.

During the early part of the journey Porter was too busy guiding his team of horses in and out among other vehicles to do much talking. Mr. Kimball was engaged in looking over an account book, and making notes of his recent purchases, with the amounts they cost, and so was too much occupied to talk. Thus Roger was left to himself for a while. He was much interested in all that he saw, though of course the city sights were almost like those of New York, except there was not the same bustle and excitement, nor such big, towering buildings.

But when he came into the pretty suburbs it was different. The air was pure and fresh, and the wind was just cool enough to be delightful that October afternoon. Soon the horses were jogging along, the reins flapping loose on their broad backs. Mr. Kimball, putting up his account book, turned to Porter, and asked:

"How's everything in Cardiff?"

"Oh, so-so," replied Mr. Amidown. "Ain't changed much sence ye come out yist'day."

"No, I don't calalate it has hed much chanst," agreed Mr. Kimball.

Then the two men began to talk of crops, of cows and horses, of the farm of this one and the garden of that one, the grape and the honey outlook, until Roger wondered how they could remember so many different names and the kinds of things that grew.

Finally Mr. Kimball bethought himself that his nephew might be lonesome, with no one to talk to, so he turned his attention to the boy, and told him of the country through which they were passing. He showed him where Enos Jones had a good field of wheat, and where Nathan Parks was expecting to gather in a fine yield of corn, and so on, until the city boy felt some of the importance of farming, and how much the people of this country depend on it.

The stage rumbled on, up hill and down dale, along the twelve miles. About five o'clock they came within sight of the white-spired church of Cardiff, and it was not long before they reached the outskirts of the village. The big vehicle stopped at the post-office. Porter threw off a bag of mail, called to the horses to resume their pulling again, and, five minutes later he drew up in front of a comfortable farmhouse, in the yard of which stood a pleasant-faced woman and a boy about Roger's age.

CHAPTER III

A TEST OF STRENGTH

"Hey, Pop! Have you brought him?" shouted the sturdy youngster whom Roger looked down at from the top of the stage. It seemed to him as if the boy was inquiring for some new kind of wild animal.

"He's here all right, Ade," replied Mr. Kimball, as he assisted his nephew down. "He's on time t' th' minute, 'n' I hope yer mother's got suthin' good fer us both t' eat."

"Land sakes! Allers thinkin' a' suthin' t' put in yer stomach," exclaimed Mrs. Kimball, laughing as she came forward to meet Roger and give him a hearty kiss.

"Here! You two boys git acquainted," commanded Mr. Kimball, and he and his wife stood aside until Roger could advance and meet his country cousin. Adrian and Roger were about the same age, and, though they were both nearly of equal height, Adrian was the more sturdy of the two, and it was easily seen what an advantage he had because of his life in the open air. He was tanned, and as brown as a butternut on his hands and face, and there was a clearness to his skin and a brightness to his eyes that Roger lacked, for the latter was pale, and his eyes showed the effects of hard study. Perhaps for a minute the two boys sized each other up, almost like two dogs that meet for the first time, and when each is uncertain as to the other's intention.

Roger held out his hand, and Adrian took it in a firm grasp, shaking it up and down, pump-handle fashion.

"Can you wrestle?" asked the country boy suddenly. It was his first greeting.

"A little," admitted Roger, "but I haven't had much chance at it. I know I'm not very good."

"Come on, then; right here in the grass," said Adrian. He started peeling off his coat.

"Not now, wait until arter supper," commanded Mr. Kimball. "Why, Ade," he went on, "I'm ashamed on ye. Don't ye know Roger's bin travellin' a good while, 'n' he ain't hed much rest. I'm s'prised at ye. 'T ain't fair t' rassal now."

"I'd just as soon," broke in Roger. "I never claimed to be much of a wrestler, but I'm not afraid to try."

He made up his mind he was not going to be stumped by any boy of his own age, in a test of strength, without an endeavor. So off came his coat in a hurry.

"Which way are you used to?" asked Adrian.

"Oh, I'm not particular."

"Well, catch-as-catch-can then," said the country boy, advancing toward Roger slowly.

It would seem that the two were hardly a match for each other, since the life Adrian led had made him much more sturdy than was his cousin. At the same time, though Roger was not as strong and well set-up as a lad of his age should have been, he was of wiry frame and quick on his feet. So, after all, the contest might not be so one-sided as it appeared at first.

For a minute the two boys circled about each other, looking for an opening. They had their hands extended, seeking for good holds, and ready to break any too dangerous grip on the part of the other. Their faces were set, and their eyes brightened with excitement, but, as it was all in fun, there was not a trace of anger.

Suddenly Adrian reached out and caught Roger's left hand with his own left. At the same moment he tried to get his right arm about the city boy's neck. But Roger was too quick for him, and, instead of gaining this advantage, Adrian found himself circled about by Roger's arm. Then there was a straining of muscles; the two boys closed in a tight grip, and the struggle was on.

Mr. Kimball watched them with great delight, for he was fond of a contest of this kind; but his wife, while used to the rough play of her own boy with his comrades, was somewhat alarmed for the effects of the wrestling on her nephew, whose frame was not trained to such rough exercise, she thought. However, she said nothing, thinking there was not much likelihood of any serious harm resulting from the tussle. The most that might happen would be a good shaking up, and soreness.

The boys were now wrestling away in earnest. To Roger it was no surprise to feel the sturdy muscles of his opponent, but it was some small wonder to Adrian to find Roger meeting his advance with a force he did not expect was in his cousin's rather thin arms. At first Adrian tried to duck his head out from the encircling hold of Roger. When he could not succeed in this he endeavored to pull the city boy off his feet. That was of little avail, for Roger was lighter than Adrian, and shuffled quickly about on the grass.

When a few minutes of this pulling and hauling had passed, the boys were panting a little, and breathing rapidly. Feeling the need of wind, Roger, for a short while, acted solely on the defensive. Then, seeing he was not making out as poorly as he feared he would, he ventured to try something on the offence. He put out his right leg, and planted it firmly behind that of Adrian's, and then tried to push his cousin over it backward, thinking to throw him in this fashion.

If Roger could have seen the smile that came over Adrian's face as he did this, perhaps he would not have been so ready to try the old trick. The country boy let himself be shoved over, ever so slightly. He even became limp in his opponent's hands, and Roger thought he saw victory most unexpectedly before him.

"Wa'al, ef Roger ain't a goin' t' throw him!" exclaimed Mr. Kimball, though not displeased because he was going to see his own son defeated. "Go at him, Roger!" he cried. "You're th' stuff!"

Then suddenly Adrian's body stiffened out. His arms that had been limp became rigid. From tilting backward he straightened up. He twisted his neck from the crook of Roger's arm, grabbed his cousin by the shoulders, shifted rapidly on his feet, and, with a quick push, sent Roger over backward, pinning him squarely upon his back on the sod.

"A fair fall! A fair fall!" cried Mr. Kimball, dancing about like a youngster himself. "I thought ye had him, Roger, but he fooled ye. Guess ye'll hev t' eat a leetle mite more, 'fore ye kin throw him," and the farmer chuckled in delight.

Roger got up from the ground. He was smiling slightly, but there was a determined look on his face that was good to see, for it showed he had met defeat bravely, and was not daunted by it.

"That's one," he said, breathing a trifle hard. "Maybe I'll do better next time. Are you ready?" and he stood waiting for another trial.

"What! Do you want to go at it again?" asked Adrian, somewhat surprised.

"Of course," answered Roger. "And if you throw me this time I'll try once more, and then to-morrow, and next day, and the next, until I've thrown you!"

"That's th' way t' talk!" exclaimed Mr. Kimball. "That's what I like t' hear. Never say die!" and he capered about as wild as a boy.

"Paw, how you talk!" said Mrs. Kimball. "Them boys sha'n't rassal any more t'night. Adrian, I'm s'prised at ye, throwin' yer cousin that has jest come out t' see ye."

"Oh, he's game, mother. He don't care," replied Adrian, smiling, and much pleased at Roger's pluck. "But we won't try any more falls right away," he added. "I'll give you another chance, though, Roger."

"Wa'al, I guess thet's th' best view t' take," said Mr. Kimball. "Ye know ye come out here t' Cardiff, Roger, t' git fattened up, 'n' ye won't do thet ef ye keep on rassalin'. I guess I'll declare a flag a' truce. Now mind," and his voice became stern, "no more rassalin' 'til I give ye leave. Ef ye want t' rassal, Ade, ye'll hev t' take on some un else."

"All right, dad," replied Adrian, good naturedly.

Roger said nothing, but he made up his mind that, though the contest was postponed for a while, he would not rest until he had thrown his cousin in a fair struggle. For the time, however, he was satisfied to wait.

"Come on 'n' wash up fer supper!" cried Mr. Kimball, as the boys were putting on their coats. "Land a' Goshen, I'm 's hungry 's th' b'ar what sees his shadder on Candlemas Day. Come on, Roger, 'n' I'll interduce ye t' yer cousin Clara, 'n' let ye set yer teeth in some a' th' finest salt-risin' bread in Cardiff, 'n' th' best buckwheat honey growed in Onondaga County," and he started for the house, followed by the two boys and Mrs. Kimball, who began to ask Roger a score of questions about his father and mother and the baby, which the boy answered as best he could.

For the first time since he had alighted from the stage Roger had a chance to look about him. The comfortable large farmhouse, painted white with green shutters, stood on the east side of the road, which ran along the edge of the beautiful Onondaga valley. Behind the house rose a gently sloping hill, on the sunny declivities of which was a large vineyard, belonging to Mr. Kimball. In front of the house was a stretch of fields, forming the bottom part of the valley, and some of these broad acres belonged to Adrian's father. The valley was about three miles wide, and, if one should walk across that space he would come to the opposite hills that framed it in, towering up, with densely wooded sides, broken here and there with little farm clearings. It was a most pleasant place to live, Roger thought. He paused for a minute, and turned to look at the view behind him.

The sun was just sinking down behind the topmost trees of the western hills, and the slanting beams, sifting through the red and yellow leaves of the autumn forest, caused the woods to appear as if they were blazing with golden fire. The beauty of the sunset made all pause to look at it, and Roger was sure he had never before seen such a happy, calm, peaceful valley as the one in the centre of which nestled the village of Cardiff.

The Kimball house was of the large roomy kind the early farmers built, with tall white pillars supporting the roof of the front porch, on top of which was a balcony. A gravel driveway passed along the south side of the building leading to the barn in the rear. Instead of going in the front door, which was, as is usual in the country, seldom opened, Mr. Kimball led the way around the side. Roger, following, heard the splash of running water, and, turning the corner, he saw a pipe spouting a sparkling stream which fell into a big basin, chiselled out of a single solid stone. This was right at the side door of the house.

"Thar!" exclaimed Mr. Kimball, "thar, Roger, you'll find thet th' best water in th' State. Nothin' like it at Saratogy er New York City. It comes from a spring right up thar on my hill, 'n' we're th' fust family t' git it, jest 's it bubbles up from th' ground. Here!" taking down the half of an empty cocoanut shell, which served as a dipper, "here, sample it," and he let the spout fill the brown vessel with the babbling, laughing water.

Roger drank deep of the refreshing liquid, for he was thirsty from the long drive, and, when he handed back the empty dipper, with a grateful breath of contentment, his uncle needed no better evidence that the water was good, as indeed any one who has been to Cardiff and tasted of it will bear witness.

Now there was the flutter of a red dress in the doorway, and Roger looked up to meet the gaze of a pretty, brown-eyed girl, whose flushed cheeks took on a deeper color as she smiled at the boy.

"That's him, Clara," called out Adrian. "That's him, 'n' I threw him, too."

"Thet's your cousin Clara," put in Mr. Kimball. "I guess ye never seen her before, 'cause th' last time yer mother were here, Clara wa'n't born yit, 'n' I vum, ye was such' a leetle chap, thet it were hard work t' locate ye, in yer long dresses," and he laughed heartily at the remembrance.

Clara held out her hand, which Roger shook warmly. She was a girl of fourteen, and was almost as large as Roger. He thought her one of the prettiest girls he had ever seen.

"I'm so glad you got here safely," she said. "I suppose Ade made you wrestle as soon as you got off the stage. I believe he would rather roll in the dirt that way than eat," and she glanced at her brother, who was turning a handspring nimbly.

"Not much I wouldn't! Not when I know supper's so near ready," answered Adrian, landing on his feet near Clara.

Then Roger became aware of the nicest odor coming from the region of the kitchen. He thought it was the best he had ever smelled, for he was hungry, more hungry than he had been in several weeks, as his appetite had not been good of late. Now it seemed as if he could not get to the table quickly enough.

Once in the house Mrs. Kimball lost no time. She led Roger to his room, a pleasant chamber next to where Adrian slept, and, when she had seen his valise and trunk brought up, and showed him where the washbowl and pitcher of water could be found, she left him to prepare for supper.

For a minute or two Roger felt a flood of lonesomeness come over him. It was so very quiet, out there in the country, more quiet than he had ever supposed it possible to be. Even though it was only six o'clock, it was more silent than at midnight in New York, where, indeed, there is never lack of noise. Through the open window of the room came only the faint rattle of a distant wagon down the dusty road, and the chirp of crickets, that had begun their evening song early. For the first time since Roger had started he wished himself home again. It wasn't half as nice, this going away, as he had thought it would be. He felt a lump coming into his throat and a trace of moisture into his eyes.

Surely he couldn't be going to cry? What, cry? Of course not. Who ever heard of such a thing, even though it did seem lonesome just at first, you know, and even though he couldn't help feeling a trifle homesick. He controlled his feelings, poured out the water, and dashed it into his face vigorously. When he had finished using the towel he broke into a cheery whistle that penetrated to the rooms below; and then he bethought himself of his determination to wrestle and throw Adrian some day. He was ready to go downstairs now.

It was a very merry supper. Roger had his first taste of salt-rising bread, which is made without yeast, and he voted it the best he ever ate. He had fresh buckwheat honey, which had been taken from the hives that same day, his uncle told him. Then there was crisp, brown ham, and golden eggs, sugar-coated crullers, and rich creamy milk, and Roger surprised himself by the manner in which he put away the victuals.

The evening was spent in the "settin' room," as Mrs. Kimball called it, where they had kerosene lamps, which seemed strange to the city boy, used only to gas or electricity. About nine o'clock Roger's eyes began to get heavy, and to feel as if they had sticks in them. His head nodded once or twice, even while his uncle was talking to him.

"Bedtime," announced Mr. Kimball, suddenly, and Roger was glad to hear him say so. With a small lamp his aunt lighted the way to his room.

"I say!" called Adrian from his apartment, when Roger had settled snug between the cool sheets,—"I say, Roger."

"Well?"

"We'll go fishing to-morrow. I know a deep hole where we can get some dandy fat chubs."

"Good," called Roger, through his open door. "That will be sport."

He fell to listening to the dreamy chirp of the crickets and the trilling of the tree-toads. Gradually these sounds became fainter and fainter, and at last he could only hear them as if the insects were a score of miles away. Roger was sound asleep.

CHAPTER IV

IN DEEP WATER

The sun was well up over the eastern hills, shining down warm and mellow on Cardiff valley when Roger awoke next morning. At first he could scarcely remember where he was, so many changes of location had he gone through lately. He looked at the old-fashioned wall paper, listened to the rustling of the wind in the trees, and wondered if he was not dreaming. Then he gradually recalled the events of the day before. He got out of bed with a jump, and was dressing when Adrian came in.

"Hello, Roger," was the greeting, "how'd you sleep?"

"Fine," answered Roger.

Then Adrian looked at the clothes his cousin was putting on. It was the same suit Roger had worn when he arrived.

"Oh, I say," exclaimed Adrian. "Don't tog out in these. We're going fishing, you know, and you'll need your old duds to go through the woods with. You'll spoil a good suit."

Then for the first time Roger realized that he didn't have to dress for school. He remembered that he was not going to study his lessons, and had only to go out into the air and sunshine, to listen to the birds, and to tramp through the fields. For the first time it came to him that, even though he was not as well and strong as many other boys, there was a good time ahead of him, and a chance for him to become as sturdy as Adrian.

"That's so, we are going fishing to-day," remarked Roger. "I'd forgotten all about it, I slept so soundly. I thought I was back in New York."

He made haste to replace his good suit with an older though serviceable one, which would stand hard usage. Then the two boys went down to breakfast, which meal, Roger was sure, tasted even better than the supper of the night previous.

"Wa'al, what's th' schedule fer t'-day?" asked Mr. Kimball, as he gulped down his second cup of coffee. "You boys goin' arter b'ar er mountain lions?"

"Are there bears in these woods?" inquired Roger, eagerly.

"Mussy sakes, no!" exclaimed Mrs. Kimball, "but 't wouldn't be yer Uncle Bert ef he did n't fool some un. Skunks 'n' squirrels, 'n' onct in a while a wild-cat, is th' biggest beasts in these parts."

"Now, mother," began Mr. Kimball, his mouth half full of potato, "ye know there is b'ars in th' woods. Didn't ye run away from one last fall, when ye were pickin' blackberries? Now, own up, did n't ye?"

"Oh, thet one," answered Mrs. Kimball, as she set a plate of buckwheat cakes in front of Roger. "He was th' tame b'ar thet got away from th' Italian organ grinder."

"Scared ye most int' a spasm, though," commented Mr. Kimball, laughing so heartily that he nearly choked on a piece of bread.

"Go along 'n' eat yer breakfust, 'n' git at th' chores," advised Mrs. Kimball, smiling a bit at the recollection of the incident.

"We're going over to Limestone creek, fishing," said Adrian. "George Bennett was there yesterday and got fifteen chub."

"Got any bait?" asked Mr. Kimball.

"Going to dig some right away," replied Adrian, trying to make short work of the meal. Roger, too, was busy with the victuals.

"Now I don't know 'bout this," began Mr. Kimball with a grave air, in contrast to his former jolly tone. "Roger didn't come out here t' start right in 'n' tramp eight er ten miles, 'n' git all tired out. His mother 'n' father wants him t' rest up, 'n' git lots a' fresh air. Now, Ade, I don't know's I ought t' let you two go. What d' ye say, Roger?"

"I don't feel at all tired," answered the boy. "I am not sure I could walk eight miles, but—"

"It's less than two miles there, pop," broke in Adrian, "and, say, you need n't worry, but I'll take care of Roger. We'll walk slow."

"I guess I can tramp as far as the creek," put in Roger, feeling a little nettled that his physical ability should so often come up for discussion.

"Wa'al, all right," assented Mr. Kimball. "It's a nice day, 'n' I guess it won't hurt ye none. Look out ye don't fall in, that's all. It's deep near th' hole where th' best fishin' is."

"We'll be careful," promised Adrian.

Breakfast over Adrian got out the fishing tackle and a spade with which to dig the worms for bait. Roger was provided with a bamboo pole and the necessary line, hooks, and sinkers. Then, when Adrian announced, after spading a good-sized patch of the barnyard up, that they had bait enough in the tin can, the two boys shouldered their poles and started off.

The way to the creek was along the main street of Cardiff, which ran through the centre of the village, up to the cross-road, that led eastward to the town of Lafayette. At this point the path went west, twisting and turning along the highway, over the hills to Onondaga Lake, twenty miles away. This was the first glimpse Roger had of the hamlet of Cardiff, except for the hasty glances as he had passed through on the stage the evening before. There were not more than sixty houses in the place, all comfortably close together, on the two sides of the main street.

Here and there, spread out along other roads, were scattered farms, with big, roomy, white houses and weather-stained barns and corn-cribs.

The boys passed over the little brook that ran across the road, just beyond Adrian's home, the stream being spanned by a wooden bridge. Soon they came to Hank Mack's general store, where you could buy a plow or a yard of red calico, a stick of candy or some gunpowder, a loaf of bread or a salt mackerel. Then there was the blacksmith shop, in the door of which stood Sam Bennett, and, next, the grist mill, kept by Truem Wright, as jolly a chap as one would care to meet in the course of a day's travel. The last building, save some houses, before the boys came to the turn of the road, was the public inn or tavern, which bore the name "The Pine Tree. Abe Crownheart, Proprietor," in big faded blue letters over the door.

It was still early in the day, but nearly all the people in Cardiff seemed to be up and about. The men and women whom Adrian met nodded or spoke to him, and glanced rather curiously at Roger, for strangers were not common in town. A walk of half a mile brought the boys to the cross-road, and they went down that some distance before Adrian indicated the place where they were to cut across lots to reach the creek. Through the fields they went, most of the land they found themselves travelling over having been given up to the raising of corn, which was now gathered in shocks, ready to be husked, leaving the heavy brown stubble sticking out of the earth.

"Don't know's we'll have much luck to-day," said Adrian, rather dubiously, as he wet his finger and held it up in the air to note which side felt coolest, and so determine the direction of the breeze.

"Why not?"

"South wind."

"What's that got to do with fishing?"

"Lots. Didn't you ever hear that? Why we never go fishing if the wind's south. It wasn't there when we started, but I guess it shifted. There's a verse that says: 'When the wind's in the west the fish bite best; when the wind's in the south it blows the hook out their mouth.' But maybe we'll get a few."

"I hope so, after all our work," said Roger.

"If I don't, it won't be the first time, for me," added Adrian, as though to prepare for the worst.

They tramped for half a mile more, and then, turning down a well-beaten path, Adrian led the way to an opening amid a grove of willow trees, along the edge of the creek. The stream, which was broad and deep here, curved around from a point, and formed an eddy that had eaten quite a distance into the bank. This eddy was used as a swimming hole by the boys of the village, but now the water was a little too cool for that sport, so the fish were not disturbed in what Adrian knew was one of their favorite haunts.

It did not take long to rig the lines on the poles, bait the hooks, and cast in. Though Roger never had much chance to go fishing in the city, the necessity of keeping quiet was apparent to him, and he moved about as slowly and as easily as he could, standing in a place Adrian had pointed out. Then he softly dropped the hook, with the wiggling, dangling worm, into the water. Adrian did likewise, and then the boys began to exercise that patience which all good fishermen are supposed to be blessed with.

Roger felt a little tired from the tramp, and, after he had stood for several minutes, he ventured to sit down on a piece of drift-wood that was on the edge of the bank. Adrian, not feeling the strain of walking, preferred to stand. It was very quiet along the edge of the creek, screened as it was by the fringe of willows. Now and then a late-staying bird, that had not yet flown south, darted in and out among the trees. The dried cornstalks rustled in the wind, and there was a pleasant smell in the air. Altogether it was a most delightful place to fish.

"I've got a bite," whispered Adrian, suddenly, and Roger noticed his cousin's line trembling and shaking just where it entered the water. "Watch me pull him out," went on Adrian softly.

The next instant he yanked his pole high in the air, and, dangling on the end of the line, twisting and flopping so that its silvery sides reflected the sun, was a good-sized fish. Roger leaped to his feet to see the catch, which his cousin landed on the ground with a thud. He started back to where the prize lay on the grassy bank, and then he felt something give way beneath him. He seemed to be falling down, and in desperation he clutched wildly at the air. He heard Adrian shouting, as though he was miles away, and the next he knew the waters of the creek closed above his head. A part of the bank where he had been sitting had broken off, and carried him into the stream with a splash of the deep water.

Roger thought he would never stop sinking down and down into the pool, and, though at this point it was only about ten feet deep, the boy imagined it must be three times that. He had kept hold of the pole when he fell, and he dimly knew that his hands still grasped it as he tried to strike out and spring to the surface. It was black as night all around him, and the waters roared and sang in his ears.

For a half minute Adrian was so frightened by his cousin's disappearance he did not know what to do. He felt sure Roger would be drowned, and, already, he was charging himself with the responsibility for it.

Then a determination to save him came into the boy's mind. With a quick motion he peeled off his coat, cast aside his cap, and, with his knife, rapidly slit the laces of his shoes, as the easiest and most expeditious way of undoing them. He kicked the leathers from him, leaped to the edge of the bank, and was about to dive into the water when he saw Roger's head bob up.

"Don't be afraid!" called Adrian. "I'll save you!"

He poised for the spring, but, to his surprise, instead of seeing Roger helplessly floundering in the creek, he noticed that his cousin was calmly treading water to keep himself afloat, for it was hard to swim weighed down by clothes and shoes.

"Look out! Here I come!" cried Adrian.

"D-don't d-don't," stuttered Roger, his teeth chattering. He was a little out of breath. "I c-c-can get o-o-out a-all r-r-right! I was a l-l-little s-s-surprised a-at first!"

"Roger held up the fish pole so that Adrian could grasp it"

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

GATHERING THE HONEY

Whether it was the country air, or the exercise Roger took after his sudden bath, he did not know, but he felt no ill effects from the plunge into the creek, nor did he catch cold. There was merry laughter over the affair when he came downstairs dressed in a dry suit, and, on Mr. Kimball's suggestion, the boys decided they had gone through enough excitement for one day.

"I would think Roger needed a rest," said Clara.

"Ef ye ain't got nothin' else t' do this arternoon, Ade," said Mr. Kimball, "ye might git off some a' th' clover honey. I'm goin' t' send a load a' stuff t' Syracuse in th' mornin', 'n' I'll want some honey t' take 'long."

"Would you like to help at that?" asked Adrian of Roger. "It's easy work."

"I guess so," replied Roger, who thought it would be interesting to see how the busy little bees worked and made the sweet stuff he had eaten the first night he came. So the boys made their preparations after dinner, which was soon served.

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?"