r, leaped up, caught him by the throat with
his left hand, and exclaimed: "Let her go, you scoundrel, or I'll thrash
the life out of you."

Without a word Dick whipped out his shooter from his hip pocket;
Donald's companions leaped from the table, concluding at once there
was going to be blood, while "Old Shorty" ducked behind the counter in
terror.

Kitty stood rooted to the spot, expecting to see her defender fall at
her feet with a bullet through his brain or heart.

Donald, the moment that Dick pulled out the pistol, grasped the arm that
held it as with a vice with his right hand, and, letting go his hold, of
his throat, with his left he wrenched the weapon from him.

Then he dealt him a straight blow in the face that felled him like an
ox.

Dick rose to his feet with murder in his eyes.

With a cry of rage he rushed upon Donald. The latter had learned to box
as well as shoot. He was quite calm, though very pale. He waited for
the attack, and then, judging his opportunity, let out his left with
terrific force. The blow struck Dick behind the ear, and he fell to the
ground with a heavy thud.

He rose to his feet, muttered something about _his_ time coming, and
slunk out.

Donald's victory over "Wild Dick," who was regarded as a bully, was
hailed in the exclamations which head this chapter.

Donald never provoked a quarrel, but, once engaged, he generally came
out victorious.

His prowess soon became bruited abroad, and he had the goodwill of all
the wild fellows of that wild region.

CHAPTER VIII. HARD TIMES AT HOME.

Life is hard in the Megantic district. A very small portion of the land
is susceptible of cultivation. The crops are meagre, and when the family
is provided for, there is very little left to sell off the farm. Money
is scarce. There is very little to be made in lumber.

When Donald went away there was a debt against his farm. He sent from
time to time what he could spare to wipe it off. But the times were bad.
Donald's father got deeper into debt. The outlook was not encouraging.

"I wish Donald would come home," the old man frequently muttered. "I
wish he would," his mother would say, and then she would cry softly to
herself.

Poverty is always unlovely.

Too often it is crime!

CHAPTER IX.

"Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care."

"DEAREST DONALD,--I received your kind letter. That you are doing well,
and saving money fo