y consciousness of a sore spot somewhere in his
life. Gradually there grew into clearness the realisation of the cause
of this sore spot.

"What is the matter with Perkins?" he asked of Tim, who had declined
to go to church, and who had strolled into the orchard to be near his
friend.

"What is the matter with Perkins?" Cameron asked a second time, for Tim
was apparently too much engaged with a late harvest apple to answer.

"How?" said the boy at length.

"He is so infernally grumpy with me."

"Grumpy? He's sore, I guess."

"Sore?"

"You bet! Ever since I beat him in the turnips that day."

"Ever since YOU beat him?" asked Cameron in amazement. "Why should he be
sore against me?"

"He knows it was you done it," said Tim.

"Nonsense, Tim! Besides, Perkins isn't a baby. He surely doesn't hold
that against me."

"Huh, huh," said Tim, "everybody's pokin' fun at him, and he hates that,
and ever since the picnic, too, he hates you."

"But why in the world?"

"Oh, shucks!" said Tim, impatient at Cameron's density. "I guess you
know all right."

"Know? Not I!"

"Git out?"

"Honor bright, Tim," replied Cameron, sitting up. "Now, honestly, tell
me, Tim, why in the world Perkins should hate me."

"You put his nose out of joint, I guess," said Tim with a grin.

"Oh, rot, Tim! How?"

"Every how," said Tim, proceeding to elaborate. "First when you came
here you were no good--I mean--" Tim checked himself hastily.

"I know what you mean, Tim. Go on. You are quite right. I couldn't do
anything on the farm."

"Now," continued Tim, "you can do anything jist as good as him--except
bindin', of course. He's a terror at bindin', but at pitchin' and
shockin' and loadin' you're jist as good."

"But, Tim, that's all nonsense. Perkins isn't such a fool as to hate me
because I can keep up my end."

"He don't like you," said Tim stubbornly.

"But why? Why in the name of common sense?"

"Well," said Tim, summing up the situation, "before you come he used to
be the hull thing. Now he's got to play second fiddle."

But Cameron remained unenlightened.

"Oh, pshaw!" continued Tim, making further concessions to his
friend's stupidity. "At the dances, at the raisin's, runnin',
jumpin'--everythin'--Perkins used to be the King Bee. Now--" Tim's
silence furnished an impressive close to the contrast. "Why! They all
think you are just fine!" said Tim, with a sudden burst of confidence.

"They?"

"All the boys. Yes, an