turn of the
stairs.

There, in the place where the Venus of Milo or the winged Mercury had
stood in the days when wealth and fashion inhabited Houston Street,
sat Jocko, draped in Mrs. Hoffman's brocade shawl, her Sunday hat
tilted rakishly on one side, and with his tail at "port-arms" over his
left shoulder. He blinked lazily at the foe and then his head tilted
forward under Mrs. Hoffman's hat.

"Saints presarve us!" gasped Mrs. Rafferty, crossing herself. "The
baste is drunk!"

Yes, Jocko was undeniably tipsy. For one brief moment a sense of the
ludicrous struggled with the just anger of the mob. That moment
decided the fate of Jocko. There came a thunderous rap at the door,
and there stood a policeman with Jim, the runaway, in his grasp.

"Does this boy--" he shouted, and stopped short, his gaze riveted upon
the monkey. Jim, shivering with apprehension, all desire to be a
soldier gone out of him, felt rather than saw the whole tenement
assembled in judgment, and he the culprit. He raised his tear-stained
face and beheld Jocko mounting guard. Policeman, camp, failure, and
the expected beating were all alike forgotten. He remembered only the
sunny attic and his pranks with Jocko, their last game of soldiering.

"Attention!" he piped at the top of his shrill voice. "Right
hand--salute!"

At the word of command Jocko straightened up like a veteran, looked
sleepily around, and raising his right paw, saluted in military
fashion. The movement pushed the hat back on his head, and gave a
swaggering look to the forlorn figure that was irresistibly comical.

It was too much for the spectators. With a yell of laughter, the
tenement abandoned vengeance. Peal after peal rang out, in which the
policeman, Jim, and his father joined, old scores forgotten and
forgiven.

The cyclone of mirth aroused Jocko. He made a last groping effort to
collect his scattered wits, and met the eyes of Jim at the foot of the
stairs. With a joyful squeal of recognition he gave it up, turned one
mighty, inebriated somersault and went flying down, shedding Mrs.
Hoffman's garments to the right and left in his flight, and landed
plump on Jim's shoulder, where he sat grinning general amnesty, while
a rousing cheer went up for the two friends.

The slate was wiped clean. Jim had come home from the war.

A BACKWOODS HERO

I had started out to explore the Magnetawan River from our camp on
Lake Wahwaskesh toward the Georgian Bay, thirty mi