ore or less
of a valid excuse.

"You come over that fence an' I'll slice you!" roared Bishop, taking a
step forward. "Things have come to a fine pass in this country if an
honest farmer can't take his milk to town without riskin' bein' murdered
by plutocrats with 'sliced balls' and all that blankety-blank tommyrot.
Climb over on this side of the fence an' I'll lick seven kinds of
stuffin' out of you in erbout a minute."

"Keep your shirt on!" retorted Harding, "you won't lick nobody."

He looked curiously at the maddened farmer.

"Your name is Bishop, isn't it?" he asked, and I wondered how he
happened to know.

"Yes, my name's Bishop," was the sullen and defiant answer.

"Jim Bishop?"

"Yes; Jim Bishop."

Harding grinned good-naturedly.

"Don't you know who I am?" he asked.

"No, I don't, and I don't give a damn!" replied Bishop, looking at him
more closely, I thought.

"Did you know a young fellow named Harding when you were a boy?" asked
Harding.

"Bob Harding?"

"Yes, Bob Harding!"

"Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on a
farm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from his
voice.

"That's what I am!" declared the millionaire, as Bishop came toward him,
a curious smile on his tanned face. "How are you, Jim?"

"Well; I'll be jiggered! How are you, Bob?" and they shook hands across
the fence. For a moment neither spoke.

"It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When did
you move to this country?"

"Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doing
with yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found something
better to do than play this here fool game an' knock people's heads
off."

He tenderly rubbed the lump on his forehead.

"I just took this game up," said Harding rather sheepishly. "I've been
building railroads."

"Are you Robert L. Harding, the railroad king that the papers talks so
much erbout?" demanded Bishop.

"I guess I'm the fellow," admitted Harding.

"Well; I never would er believed it!" gasped Bishop, and then they shook
hands again.

They sat on a rock and talked about Buckfield and their boyhood days for
an hour. It seems that they were born and raised on adjoining farms, and
were chums until Harding's father died, at which time Harding went West
and found his fortune.

Not until the horses became restless and started to go home did Bishop
note the passing of time. He c