our distance, as revised by Goodloe and his variations, and then
dismissed him and sent him on his homeward road.

It was night when we arrived. I fed the horses and made a fire near the
bank of the river and cooked supper. Goodloe would have helped, but his
education had not fitted him for practical things.

But while I worked he cheered me with the expression of great thoughts
handed down from the dead ones of old. He quoted some translations from
the Greek at much length.

"Anacreon," he explained. "That was a favorite passage with Miss
Mangum--as I recited it."

"She is meant for higher things," said I, repeating his phrase.

"Can there be anything higher," asked Goodloe, "than to dwell in the
society of the classics, to live in the atmosphere of learning and
culture? You have often decried education. What of your wasted efforts
through your ignorance of simple mathematics? How soon would you have
found your treasure if my knowledge had not shown you your error?"

"We'll take a look at those hills across the river first," said I,
"and see what we find. I am still doubtful about variations. I have
been brought up to believe that the needle is true to the pole."

The next morning was a bright June one. We were up early and had
breakfast. Goodloe was charmed. He recited--Keats, I think it was, and
Kelly or Shelley--while I broiled the bacon. We were getting ready to
cross the river, which was little more than a shallow creek there, and
explore the many sharp-peaked cedar-covered hills on the other side.

"My good Ulysses," said Goodloe, slapping me on the shoulder while I was
washing the tin breakfast-plates, "let me see the enchanted document
once more. I believe it gives directions for climbing the hill shaped
like a pack-saddle. I never saw a pack-saddle. What is it like, Jim?"

"Score one against culture," said I. "I'll know it when I see it."

Goodloe was looking at old Rundle's document when he ripped out a most
uncollegiate swear-word.

"Come here," he said, holding the paper up against the sunlight. "Look
at that," he said, laying his finger against it.

On the blue paper--a thing I had never noticed before--I saw stand out
in white letters the word and figures: "Malvern, 1898."

"What about it?" I asked.

"It's the water-mark," said Goodloe. "The paper was manufactured in
1898. The writing on the paper is dated 1863. This is a palpable fraud."

"Oh, I don't know," said I. "The Rundles are pret