cold, Northern climes; when the mighty Bengal reeled and fell dying,
and Sister Flora sprang from her hiding place on the roof to sing a
hymn of praise; when all this had been told, Luther Warden banged the
book shut, arose, and looked at the clock.

[Illustration: The tiger story.]

"Mighty souls!" he cried. "It's long past bed-time. It's half-past
nine."

Back over the white road we went, Weston and Perry, Tim and I.

"Good-night, boys!" called the strange man cheerily from the gloom of
the tavern porch.

It was the first word he had spoken on our walk home.

"Is it two million five hundred and sixty thousand, or two hundred and
fifty-six thousand persons that are bitten annually by snakes in
India?" cried Tim, suddenly awaking from his moody silence.

"You can go back to-morrow and find out," came from the porch.

"Good-night, Mr. Weston," returned my brother sharply.

Perry Thomas parted from us at the gate, and we stood watching his
retreating figure till we lost it at the bend. Then we went in.

Standing at the foot of the stairs, with a lighted candle in his hand,
Tim turned suddenly to me and said, "I thought you were going to see
Weston."

"I thought you were sitting at home waiting for me to get back," I
retorted.

"Can I help you upstairs?" he said.

"No, I'm going to sit awhile and smoke," I answered jauntily, "and
talk--to Captain."

VII

Tim was leaving the valley. We tied his tin trunk on the back of the
buggy and he climbed to the seat beside me. Tip Pulsifer handed him a
great cylindrical parcel, bound in a newspaper, and my brother held it
reverently in his lap; for it was a chocolate cake, six layers high,
that Mrs. Tip had baked from the scanty contents of the Pulsifer flour
barrel. Tim was going to the city, and all the city people Mrs. Tip
had ever seen were lean, quick-moving and nervous, a condition which
she concluded was induced by starvation. So she had done her best to
provide Tim against want. Her mind was the mind of Six Stars. All the
village was about the buggy. Josiah Nummler had rowed down from his
hill-top, and the bulge in Tim's pocket was caused by the half dozen
fine pippins which the old man had brought as his farewell gift. Even
Theophilus Jones left the store unguarded, and hurried over when the
moment arrived that the village was to see the last of its favorite
son. Mrs. Tip Pulsifer is always red about the eyes, and no way was
left her to