looked appealingly toward Max,
who had promised to get him out of the scrape.

At the same time he held up the little contrivance he had in his hand.

"Yes'm, this is a pistol, but not the kind you mean," he said, trying to
keep his voice from shaking, and to be as respectful as possible. "It
holds just a little mite of ammonia, and is used by bicycle riders to
keep savage dogs from tearing them to pieces. I had to try it on Carlo
because he was just bound to take a bite out of my leg; and you know I
can't spare any."

She looked down at Bandy-legs' rather crooked lower extremities, and the
faintest flicker of a smile crossed her angry face.

Just then Max put in an entering wedge.

"How d'ye do, Mrs. Ketcham? I didn't expect we were coming to your house
when we started out from our camp to try and get some fresh eggs and
milk. Of course I did know you lived up in this region somewhere. But my
chum wasn't to blame at all, Mrs. Ketcham, I give you my word for it.
And Carlo will get over the pain in a short time. I hope you won't hold
it against us."

Apparently the farmer's wife had not taken a good look at Max up to
then. Her entire attention had been focussed on the guilty party, whom
she meant to intimidate with her righteous anger.

It was astonishing what a sudden change came over her rather vinegary
face as she recognized Max. The fact of the matter was, that she had
been supplying his folks with fresh butter and eggs for several years,
and accounted them among her best customers, going in twice a week to
deliver her goods.

When poor shivering Bandy-legs saw that change in the expression of her
thin face he experienced the most delightful sensation. It was similar
to what a fellow might pass through when he had been hauled up from over
a precipice after hanging to a bush the roots of which were slowly but
surely giving way.

"Why, is it you, Max!" the woman exclaimed, her face breaking out with a
smile that made her look quite like a different person; "I'm real glad
to see you up at the farm. And if this other boy is a friend of yours,
why, of course I'll have to forgive him for hurting my poor old Carlo.
Perhaps he had to do it, as he says; and my husband does say the dog is
getting a little ugly in his old age. We'll forget it then. What's your
friend's name, Max? Seems to me I ought to know him."

"He's Doctor Griffin's boy, Clarence," Max hastened to reply; "and as
good a fellow as any one would wa