tage where he lived with his aged mother; and then
Oswald found that what he had forgotten about the leeches was SALT. The
young man in the bloom of youth's mother put salt on the leeches, and
they squirmed off, and fell with sickening, slug-like flops on the brick
floor.

Then the young man in corduroys and the bloom, etc., carried Denny home
on his back, after his legs had been bandaged up, so that he looked like
'wounded warriors returning'.

It was not far by the road, though such a long distance by the way the
young explorers had come.

He was a good young man, and though, of course, acts of goodness are
their own reward, still I was glad he had the two half-crowns Albert's
uncle gave him, as well as his own good act. But I am not sure Alice
ought to have put him in the Golden Deed book which was supposed to be
reserved for Us.

Perhaps you will think this was the end of the source of the Nile (or
North Pole). If you do, it only shows how mistaken the gentlest reader
may be.

The wounded explorer was lying with his wounds and bandages on the sofa,
and we were all having our tea, with raspberries and white currants,
which we richly needed after our torrid adventures, when Mrs Pettigrew,
the housekeeper, put her head in at the door and said--

'Please could I speak to you half a moment, sir?' to Albert's uncle.
And her voice was the kind that makes you look at each other when the
grown-up has gone out, and you are silent, with your bread-and-butter
halfway to the next bite, or your teacup in mid flight to your lips.

It was as we suppose. Albert's uncle did not come back for a long while.
We did not keep the bread-and-butter on the wing all that time, of
course, and we thought we might as well finish the raspberries and white
currants. We kept some for Albert's uncle, of course, and they were the
best ones too but when he came back he did not notice our thoughtful
unselfishness.

He came in, and his face wore the look that means bed, and very likely
no supper.

He spoke, and it was the calmness of white-hot iron, which is something
like the calmness of despair. He said--

'You have done it again. What on earth possessed you to make a dam?'

'We were being beavers,' said H. O., in proud tones. He did not see as
we did where Albert's uncle's tone pointed to.

'No doubt,' said Albert's uncle, rubbing his hands through his hair. 'No
doubt! no doubt! Well, my beavers, you may go and build dams with your
bo