to find the sun high. A great beam of it lay across
the foot of his camp cot, bringing comforting warmth to the toes which
protruded from the shelter of abbreviated blankets. The professor
wiggled his toes cautiously. He was accustomed to doing this before
making more radical movements. They were a valuable index to the state
of the sciatic nerve. This morning they wiggled somewhat stiffly and
there were also various twinges. But considering the trying experiences
of yesterday it was surprising that they could wiggle at all. He lifted
himself slowly--and sank back with a relieved sigh. It would have been
embarrassing, he thought, had he not been able to get up.

All men have their secret fears and Professor Spence's secret fear was
embodied in a story which his friend and medical adviser (otherwise
"Old Bones") had seen fit to cite as a horrible example. It concerned a
man who had sciatica and who didn't take proper care of him-self. One
day this man went for a walk and fell suddenly upon the pavement unable
to move or even to explain matters satisfactorily to a heartless
policeman who insisted that he was drunk. The doctor had laughed over
this story; doctors are notoriously inhuman. The professor had laughed
also, but the possible picture of him-self squirming helplessly before
a casually interested public had terrors which no enemies' shrapnel had
ever been able to inspire.

Well, thank heaven it hadn't happened yet! The professor confided
his satisfaction to an inquisitive squirrel which swung, bright eyed,
from a branch which swept the window, and, sitting up, prepared to take
stock of the furnishings of his room. A grim smile signalled his
discovery that there were no furnishings to take stock of. Save for his
camp bed, an affair of stout canvas stretched between crossed legs, the
room was beautifully bare. Not a chair, not a wash-stand, not a table
cumbered it--unless a round, flat tree stump, which looked as if it
might have grown up through the floor, was intended for both washstand
and table. It had served the latter purpose at any rate as upon it
rested the candle-stick containing the solitary candle by which he had
got himself to bed.

"Single room, without bath," murmured the professor. "Oh, if my Aunt
Caroline could see me now!"

Oddly enough, something in the thought of Aunt Caroline seemed to have
a reconciling effect upon Aunt Caroline's nephew. He lay back upon his
one thin pillow and reviewed his