tle mystery of his. What do you think of the farmer that
doesn't follow the plough, Wilks?"

"I think he drinks," sententiously responded the schoolmaster.

"Then he and Ben Toner are in the same box, and both are friends or
customers of the workin' geologist. I believe it's whiskey goes between
the grindstones, and that it's smuggled in from the States, somewhere up
on the Georgian Bay between Collingwood and Owen Sound. The plot is
thickening."

When the pedestrians emerged from the path on a very pretty country road
the first objects that met their view were three stout waggons, drawn by
strong horses and driven by bleary eyed men, noisy and profane of
speech. Their waggon loads were covered with buffalo robes and
tarpaulins, which, however, did not effectually conceal the grindstones
beneath. The drivers eyed the pedestrians with suspicion, and consigned
them to the lower regions and eternal perdition.

"Wilks, my dear," said the lawyer, in a sort of cool fever heat,
"there's a revolver and a box of cartridges in my pack that I'd like to
have in my right hand pocket for that kind of cattle."

"I have one, too," said the dominie, quietly, "but we had better pass on
and not heed them. See, they are armed as well."

Just as he spoke there was a report; a pistol in the hand of the first
teamster smoked, and a poor little squirrel, that had been whirring on
the limb of a basswood, dropped to the ground dead.

"I'd as lief as not put a hole into the back of them d----d packs," said
the second teamster, whereupon the others swore at him to shut up and
save his cartridges.

"Wilks, I could once hit a silver dollar at twenty yards. Dad, I'll get
the thing out anyway." The lawyer sat down, undid his knapsack and
primed his revolver, which he then placed with the box of cartridges in
the pocket out of which he had thrown the fossils. The dominie did the
same, all the time saying: "No violence! my dear friend; in this world
we must pretend not to see a great many things that we cannot help
seeing." The teamsters went by, and no further use for the revolver
appeared. Wilkinson would not allow his companion to shoot at birds or
chipmunks, and, on being expostulated with, the kindly lawyer confessed
that it would have been a shame to take their innocent young lives. At
last they saw a gray paper-like structure of large size on the limb of
an oak pretty high up. "I'll bet you can't hit that, Wilks," said the
lawyer. "I sha