Willis Thornton Displays His Pluck
Train No. 6 on the D. & P.W., two hours late at Limon, was rushing and jolting along over its rickety roadbed. The rain fell in torrents, the heavy peals of thunder seemed about to tear the car to pieces, the black and threatening clouds blotted out the landscape, and the passengers could hear nothing but the roar of the thunder and the rattle of the train. The brakeman, shaking the water from his hat as he passed through the aisle, dropped something about it being a "mighty tough day for railroadin'."
Suddenly there was a creaking, a cracking, and then a series of awful jolts. Window glass broke and flew in every direction. Like a mighty monster that had suddenly been frightened by an unseen foe, the train lurched forward, tipped a little, and slowly came to an uncertain stop. People were hurled from their seats with a great violence as the emergency brake was set. A baby cried out from a seat near the front of the car, and a woman screamed as a satchel from the luggage rack above her head dropped down upon her. Willis Thornton raised his arms above his head just in time to save a heavy leather suitcase from striking his mother full in the face. Through the broken windows was heard the shrill warning notes of the engine's trouble whistle, but so intense was the storm that the sound seemed rather a part of the raging gale. The brakeman rushed through the car, and as he passed Willis heard him exclaim half-aloud, "The freight!" Then in a loud, shaky voice, not meant to betray excitement, he shouted, "All out; train off the track!"
He need not have spoken, however, for the people who had not already gotten out were close upon him. First in the rush was the mother of the babe that had screamed when the first jolts came. She was wild-eyed and hysterical. A piece of flying glass had struck her on the face, and the warm, trickling blood had frightened her. She rushed up to the nearest man and shouted, "Is my husband safe?" Just then a sickly, dudish little man, with a lighted cigar in his mouth, rushed toward her.
"Ba Jove, my dear, you are 'urt," he said as she hurried toward him and fainted in his arms.
The word had been passed around that a heavy freight was expected at any moment. The passenger whistle blew in long, shrill tones, while the brakeman hurried up the hill in the direction of the expected freight to give the danger signal. Hardly had he reached the top when there came the faint sound of a whistle. He heard the three blasts. The train had left Eastonville! Could he save a wreck? Lantern in hand, he hurried down the track as fast as he could with the wind and rain beating him back. Suddenly a black form loomed up in the mist ahead. Full blast she came, the black smoke from her stack running ahead as if to coax her on to greater speed. The brakeman waved his red lantern frantically in the air. There was a screeching sound of brake-shoes on the wheels, a long, shrill whistle, and the train sped past him, a misty dull serpent in the storm. He turned and followed as fast as he could.
Women with disheveled hair stood and wrung their hands. Men cursed and swore as they ran back and forth about the derailed passenger. The wind lulled for a second, and in the momentary silence there came the half-smothered cry of a little child from one direction, answered from somewhere in the fog by the rushing of wheels and the faint, weird sigh of a whistle.
Willis's head went up, his eyes flashed, his muscles tightened; then, turning to his mother, he cried, "The baby!" and in an instant was gone. It all happened so quickly there was no time for Mrs. Thornton to think. She saw Willis hasten away and enter the front door of the car they had been occupying; at the same instant she became aware of the approaching train. There was a shrill, angry hiss, and the freight swung into the cut with a terrible roar, then came a crashing of glass and breaking of timbers. The engineer had opened the whistle valve with such a jerk that it had stuck fast, and the whistle did its utmost. It was a doleful sound, pulsating its strange, sharp cry into the storm.
Mrs. Thornton sank to her knees in an attitude of prayer, her head dropped to her breast. The mother that had fainted roused a little and called for her child.
The passengers rushed back and forth in a perfect frenzy, shouting, "The baby! the baby!" Women cried and begged and implored some one to save it; but it was all over before any one could act or before the Englishman realized that it was his child that was in danger. The engines had telescoped. The freight was derailed and the first three cars completely demolished. The crew had all jumped and were uninjured, except the fireman, who had a badly-broken leg and some bruises. Two men came around the end of the Pullman with a boy supported between them. His head hung limp and the blood trickled slowly from nasty cuts on his head and face. Following them came the brakeman with a very frightened but unharmed baby, wrapped in an overcoat. Every one made a rush for the little group. The Englishman was first in line. His eyes opened wide and his cigar fell from his lips. "By Jove, Chauncey!" he exclaimed, "they came near getting you that time," then began to cry like a child.
The danger was past. There was no one killed, and only a few injured. Several people were cut by broken glass and bruised by bumps. The fireman of the freight had broken his leg and cut his shoulder badly in his jump. Willis had reached the opposite platform, with the baby in his arms, just as the trains collided. The jar had thrown him from his feet and broken the glass in the door behind him. The jolt threw him, baby and all, out against the side of the cut into the wet sand. Outside of the ugly cuts and bad bruises he was unharmed, but was the hero of the day.
Mrs. Thornton sat by her boy, tenderly caring for his every need. He had swooned at the sight of his own blood and had not yet returned to consciousness. In the next seat the injured fireman was propped up on pillows, watching the boy.
"There's a piece of real stuff," he said to the engineer as they sat talking together. "Looks just like my old pard. It took real pluck to go after that baby. If Bill'd a been here he would have gotten enthusiastic over that lad."
A Story Is Told and a Promise Made
An open fire had always been tremendously fascinating to Willis Thornton, and on winter evenings, when his chores were done and supper over, he would pile the big fireplace high with maple logs, then sit and dream as the flames danced and the fire roared. He was a sturdy lad, healthy, cheerful, wholesome, and tonight he was thinking.
The snow-laden wind was sweeping across the "Flat Bush." At every fresh gust the fire would crackle and the little blue flames start up along the none-too-well seasoned logs. Outside the old farmhouse the great dead limb of a monstrous white oak moaned and sighed, while the usual sounds from the barnyard were lost in the patter of the icy snowflakes that rattled against the window pane. From the open door of the kitchen came faint odors of freshly-popped corn and the monotonous hum of the old sewing-machine. Willis was hardly aware of any presence in the room save his own until a warm hand was laid gently on his and a dish of snowy popcorn set in his lap. He had been so engrossed with his own fancies that he had not seen his mother enter the firelit room and come toward him.
"Well, my boy; what are you dreaming of tonight?" she asked, as she seated herself in her accustomed place on the arm of his chair and placed her arm gently on his shoulder.
"O, I've just been planning a bit, mother," he said with a smile. "Sometimes when I sit here by this old fire I forget myself. I travel to the strangest lands and think the strangest thoughts. Still, they all seem so very real to me that when I try not to think of them a peculiar restlessness comes over me. I can hardly wait for summer and the great big out-of-doors. Did you ever think, mother, what life would be if we didn't have the birds and the bees and the flowers? Are people in the cities happy and contented without them? I've often wondered. I suppose some day I'll be going to the city to live, as all the other boys have done; but when I think of it it makes me sad. I don't believe I'd ever be happy in the city, mother, unless—"
He paused long enough to stir up the fire and put on another log.
"Unless what, Willis?" his mother inquired.
"Unless—" he hesitated as if thinking. "I could go West to where father was."
His mother listened as he went on. "The schoolmaster was telling us today about the wonderful Rocky Mountains. He was there last summer on his vacation, you know. We were studying about Pike's Peak and the Garden of the Gods, so he told us all about his trip there. He went from Colorado Springs to somewhere away up in the mountains to a great gold camp. He told us of the queer little shanties the people live in, and of the great piles of waste ore outside of each mine. He went through one mine, the Independence, I think he called it, or the Portland—I don't remember which now; but he said the machinery used in hoisting the ore was wonderful. It all set me to thinking of father—I've been thinking of him all day. Mother, it's mighty hard for a fellow like me not to have any father, only just a dead one."
He arose a second time to replenish the fire, but remained standing, facing his mother. He was too deeply interested in his own thoughts just then to notice the tears that were slowly stealing down his mother's face, and the light was too dim for him to see her sad, care-worn expression. She was not old, but fate had not been kind to her. She was a slender little woman, with a heavy mass of what had once been brown hair, but it was now streaked with gray. Her eyes were large and brown, and the intermingled expression of love and sadness made her face one of tender beauty, lighted as it was by the rosy tints from the open fire. As the boy talked on in his manly way she suddenly became aware of a change in him. She noticed the well-built and symmetrically developed body, the broad shoulders, the short, stocky neck, and the head covered with brown ringlets. She could not see the face, but she knew only too well of whom it reminded her, for of late she had often found herself saying, "Just like the father—just like the father."
It was during such winter evenings as this that she had come to know her son best, as she sat on the arm of his chair and listened with tactful sympathy to his stories of the big black bass that kept house in the pool at the end of the lake, or of the downy woodpecker's nest in the old hickory, or, perhaps, of the big hoot owl that perched on the granary warm nights to watch for mice. It was with a certain feeling of sadness, as well as of pride, that she watched him grow older, lose his boyhood ways, and become more and more of a man—a man just like his father!
"I get so lonely for some one to teach me things, and go with me into the big woods, and help me skin my rats in season," he was saying, "and to teach me to use tools and to understand the books and—"
"Yes, my son," she replied. "But haven't you me? Won't I do to read with you and help you find new wild flowers and gather strange caterpillars in the spring?"
"Yes, mother, of course you will, and you know how I do care for you. I couldn't begin to do without you even for a day; but someway you don't understand. It's because you are a woman. Sometimes I feel as if I would be the happiest boy in the Clear Creek School if I just had a father I could look up to and be proud of and—"
"O, but Willis, be careful." Her voice was low and full of feeling. "You can do all that, my boy, and more. I know you miss him, but you must not forget we had him once, both of us, and that he was the very best father in all the world." She stopped, for now the tears were coming fast. "The only trouble is that he was taken away before you were lad enough to know him and love him as you would if we had him now. But that is all the more reason why you should grow into a worthy man, my boy—for his sake and mine. He loved you dearly, and I've often thought it was that love and ambition for you that made him determine to make money, so that you might have the future he planned for you. He left you, my boy, something better than money—a heritage of clean, noble blood and character. You aren't old enough just yet to know all that that means, but some day you will be truly thankful."
"You are right—always right; but you know what I mean, don't you? You have never told me all about him, have you, mother? Won't you tell me now? I never wanted to know so badly as I do tonight. He seems to come near to me sometimes, even if I can't see him, and I want to know more about him."
The fire burned low; the storm had increased in its fury; it seemed as if each gust would lift the house from its foundations. Still, to these two, opening their hearts to each other in the kindly glow of the firelight, the storm was forgotten.
After a pause she began softly and very slowly to tell the story.
"Your father was a noble man, Willis, such as I am sure you will be if you are spared to live. His boyhood I do not know much about, only that it was spent on his father's farm. He went to Kalamazoo for his schooling, and it was there that I first met him. He worked hard, saved his money, and went to Ann Arbor for his college work. He was ambitious to become a great engineer, and was always tinkering at some kind of a machine. He used to joke with me about becoming a great inventor, and after we were married he did try his hand at a patent coupler and a back-firing device for a gas engine. He was just like you, my boy, always dreaming and seeing things in the out-of-doors. I can remember the delight he found in rising early on summer mornings to search for caterpillars, moths, and worms in the nearby woods, and he would put a strange bug in every bottle I had in the house.
"After our marriage we moved to Lansing, and he became superintendent in an electrical manufacturing company. He had a little shop of his own in the basement at home, and during the long winter evenings of the first year that we were there he built furniture for our little home. The chair we are sitting in, Willis, is one of his first pieces. We were very happy together there, and it wasn't long before you came. The summer before you were born his company sent him West to install mine machinery. It was then that he became interested in the great gold mines of Colorado. Everybody seemed to be prospecting and staking gold claims. He thought he saw his chance to get rich quickly, so he, too, began prospecting. He very soon developed a great love for the mountains, and while you were a baby he used to go to Colorado Springs for his vacations. His mind was very active, and as he became more closely acquainted with the mines he conceived an idea for a machine to roast gold ore by electricity. In the winter evenings he would sit sketching its parts and dreaming over his plans. Sometimes in his boyish enthusiasm he would assure me that he would yet be a rich man."
"And what about his mine, mother; doesn't that come into the story pretty soon?" "Yes, yes, but don't hurry me, son. It seems so very strange to be sitting here telling you all about him, for it seems to have happened so long, long ago.
"On one of his trips west he fell in with an old mountaineer named Kieser, Tad Kieser. Tad became interested in his roasting machine, and they decided to locate claims together. Tad was to put up the 'grub stakes,' as they called it, for your father had no money except his salary. All one fall, when he was not installing machinery, they explored the mountains south of Colorado Springs, especially along the old Stage Road to Cripple Creek, looking for suitable claims. The old Stage Road was a steep, rocky mountain road over which they hauled provisions and passengers into the Cripple Creek district.
"Several miles from the city there was an old log hostelry—'Wright's Road House' they called it. Here lived a strange old man, a mountaineer of the oldest type. Daddy Wright, they called him. He and Tad were old friends, so your father became very well acquainted with him. The stages to and from the gold camp always stopped at Dad's; sometimes for a meal and sometimes for all night. It was one of the delights of your father's business trips to spend an evening with this old man in his rough mountain cabin, sitting before his crude stone fireplace smoking and listening to stories of the days of 'forty-nine,' when Dad had hunted for gold in the mountains of California. Your father and Tad were both in the old road house the night it was burned and barely escaped with their lives. He didn't tell me about it until long afterwards.
"Tad and your father finally filed on two claims. One was on Cheyenne Mountain, near Dad's claims, and the other was somewhere near a mountain called Cookstove. Your father thought that valley was the most beautiful spot he had ever seen. He used to write me long letters describing the beautiful canyon and the falls, which was just a ribbon of water that trickled down the face of a monstrous granite boulder hundreds of feet in height. He called it St. Marys Falls. Here, somewhere in a hidden spot of this canyon, they found a strange outcropping of black rock which your father believed would lead to an extensive gold vein in the interior of the mountain. I remember he called the vein an 'iron dyke,' and said that a compass revolted when placed on it. His great desire was to mine that strata by means of a tunnel, but he had no money, so he and Tad decided that they would work during the winter months and save what money they could, then both work on the tunnel in warm weather. They chose a spot down in the canyon that was high, but still near the stream, and there built a log shanty to live in while they worked the claim. He wrote me how they cut the great spruce on the side of the mountain far above the chosen spot and rolled them in. Dad let them use his team of donkeys to pack in the necessary lumber and shingles for the 'shack.' Father came home, and Tad, with some hired help, erected the first log cabin in the canyon. My, but he was proud of it.
"The next spring saw them at work on the tunnel. I did so hate to let father go, for I was afraid some harm would befall him; but he reassured me and seemed so positive that all our future hopes lay hidden in that hole that I let him go. The first season they went in thirty feet, and things looked better every foot. It was very hard for him to close up the hole and come home to his winter's work. His company in Lansing had inspected the drawings of his proposed machine and had promised him a goodly sum for the patent if he proved that it would work. The only question was the securing of the proper ore for flux. I remember his hopes ran high when one day they came upon a narrow vein of this necessary flux stone. He was so sure that they would find more, and the gold, too, that he made plans to build a great reducing plant, using the falls for motor power. He had it all worked out on paper, even to details.
"Meanwhile my sister, your Aunt Lucy, and Uncle Joe went West for her health, and settled in Colorado Springs. Uncle Joe became a real estate dealer and also interested in mines and mining properties. He was greatly interested in the tunnel, and predicted great things for its future. About this time all the land around the canyon, both north and south, became a part of the Pike's Peak Forest Reserve, so that your father had to refile on his claim and prove to the land office that he was working a real mineral vein. In refiling, his claim was not big enough to include the shanty, but anticipating no trouble on account of it he neglected to lease his cabin from the Forest Reserve officials. The news leaked out that gold had been discovered in Cookstove Gulch, and in a few days the entire stream was staked from one end of the canyon to the other as placer claims. Of course the cabin site became the property of another man, and with it the cabin, as it could not be moved. The new owner was a little, short, pudgy man with an ever-ready eye for business, so father and Tad were forced to rent the cabin they had built and paid for. That winter was the one your sister Mabel was taken from us, and the last year we were all together."
She stopped and gazed into the fire, seemingly forgetting the boy who sat by her side. Then she reached forward and placed the last stick on the slowly-dying embers. As it caught, and the flames leaped into the chimney in response to the wind outside, she continued:
"The next summer was the last. I never knew just how it happened exactly; but some way, while making a new side drift in the tunnel, a blast went off prematurely, and he was caught in the falling rocks and crushed to death. Uncle Joe wrote me the particulars—all that I ever had.
"He was too badly mangled to be recognized, so even before I knew of the accident his poor, broken body was laid to rest under the pines in Evergreen Cemetery. The tunnel was closed and locked, and your uncle packed father's few belongings in the little old trunk I gave you last spring for your own and sent it home—all that I ever saw again of your father.
"Then followed the terrible fever that nearly took my life. How I prayed, my boy, that I might die, so great was my sorrow and utter loneliness; but the Great Father saw fit to keep me here, and now I am thankful. He needed me to help you become a man. When I was so sick grandfather came and brought us home, and here we have been ever since."
"But, mother, have you never wanted to go to Colorado?"
"Yes, son, I've often thought I would be happier there, but father has never thought so. I've often promised Aunt Lucy we'd come. I'm afraid she won't be long for this world, for she has a very serious tubercular trouble. You must never mention it, son, but your grandfather never had any use for Uncle Joe, and was very much opposed to Lucy's marrying him, so they slipped off and were married secretly. She has never felt like coming home since—not even for a visit. Father gets very lonely for her, for she was the life of the old home. I would not be surprised, son, if I should be called to her bedside any time now, for she is very low."
"Mother, if such a thing should happen, you'd take me with you, wouldn't you?" eagerly asked Willis.
"Of course I would, my son."
"And perhaps I could find father's tunnel. Say, mother, did you ever hear what became of that Tad Kieser after father's death?" he inquired.
"No, son, I never heard. He wrote me one letter, expressing his sympathy, and in that letter I remember he said he had abandoned the tunnel because he was convinced that it was not a safe place to work, and probably it never would have amounted to anything, anyway."
"Do you suppose he is still prospecting somewhere in the mountains, mother?"
"I don't know, Willis. Probably not, for that was ten years ago, you know."
The remains of the last log dropped between the andirons and rolled over.
Mrs. Thornton rose.
"It's time we were in bed, son, long ago." With that she gently bent, kissed him on the forehead, and slipped off to her own room, leaving him with the dying fire. He sat still a long time, his eyes wide open and his fists clenched.
"If I only could," he was saying. "If I only could."
In Which Willis Is Honored
"You're always trying to get in a new fellow, Chuck. We never would have a new member if you didn't do your scouting around. You know more about the fellows in this town than any half-dozen of the rest of us. How do you get next to them?"
These remarks came from Robert Dennis, the splendid captain of the High
School Basket Ball Team. He had met a few of his companions at the Young
Men's Christian Association that evening.
The Association was a very handsome, four-story brick that stood some distance back from the street. Of all the places in the community for young fellows to "hang out" the Association was the most popular. At any hour after school, until closing time in the evening, small groups of fellows of every age might be found in the various departments, talking athletics, planning an all-day hike into the mountains, discussing an amateur theatrical, a debating club, a Bible study supper, or some other of the many activities carried on by these fellows with the Association as a basis of operations and a partner. It appealed to the best fellows in the school, and even in the entire community, for it had very early in its history made itself known as a clean, broad-minded, sympathetic, and constructive agency in the lives of boys and young men. It appealed to the fellows because they could have a hand in its operations and a voice in its government; because it stood for clean sport, clean bodies, clean minds, healthy spirits, and a type of social life that had all the appearances of being powerfully masculine, and yet clean and gentlemanly. It stood for a three-sided manhood—spirit, mind, and body.
Chuck seated himself. "No, Dennis, not always getting a new member, but I'll tell you one thing, I always do have an eye open for a first-class fellow for our bunch. You know as well as I do that if we are going to keep things right, here in our old Y.M., and give the 'Chief' the help he needs, we'll have to keep adding every strong, clean, congenial fellow we can lay our hands on. You don't need to worry about our getting too many. O.F.F. has been doing stunts for two years now, and in that time we have just taken in five new men. We have room for at least three more. I know sometimes I make a mistake, but I'll bet my hat on this fellow. He's no ordinary kid, I'll tell you that. I saw him in the swimming tank with his uncle, Mr. Williams, yesterday, and a cleaner-cut, better-built fellow you never saw. Swim like a fish, and dive—why, there's nothing to it. If he takes a membership in this Department he'll be in the Leaders' Corps in less than a jiffy, and, what's more, he'll be a leader in everything else, too, when he gets acquainted."
"Well, I'll tell you," said "Shorty" Wier, who had thus far kept silent, "Let's all look him over and get better acquainted with him Wednesday night on the hike. The 'Chief' told me he had invited him to go along with the bunch."
"What's the bunch going to do on Wednesday night?" inquired "Sleepy" Smith, who was always preoccupied when anything of real importance was going on.
"Why, you ought to wake up occasionally and you wouldn't be so far behind the times," replied Chuck, rather dryly. "The class is going to Sweet Potato Gulch for a business meeting and wiener-bake. Be sure to be on hand, every man of you."
"O well, I don't like wieners, anyway," replied Smith, and he returned to his own thoughts.
* * * * *
Wednesday night was perfect—not a cloud in the sky, and a great half-moon to help them find their way. There was a spring breeze in the air, the kind that makes a great wood-fire of dry logs and pine needles about the most attractive thing on earth to a crowd of young savages. Far away to the westward Pike's Peak's hoary head was lifted into the sky, dimly lighted by the yellow rays of the moon. There was a faint odor of spring in the air, while the little mountain stream had not as yet given up its icy prattle. Little patches of snow still dotted the sides of the canyon, and here and there a crystal icicle sparkled from the end of a pine bough.
It was a night of wonders for Willis. He had never felt the "call of the wild" so strongly and irresistibly as on that night. Every mountain crag seemed to be calling him, and in his fancy he thought the fir trees reached their gently-waving branches, beckoning him to come into the darkness and solitude. In spite of himself, his thoughts would wander to the Michigan homeland. He wondered if the ice had broken on the lake yet, and if the blossoms had begun to come in the old orchard, and if his grandmother had filled the incubator. He felt queer with so many strangers, yet not at all ill-at-ease, for he had lived a wholesome life in the out-of-doors, and the meaning of fear was almost unknown to him. As the fire was lighted and the wieners set to bake on the end of long, green willow sticks, he began to enter more completely into the merriment of the crowd.
It was an exceptional group of older fellows—the clean fun and wholesome chat was above the ordinary, yet was spontaneous and real. The "Chief," whose name was Allen, stood at one side of the fire with a note-book in his hand, while the fellows were seated upon a dead log that had been dragged close to the fire. Allen was a young man of medium height, well-built, and clean-cut. His hair was black and his eyes were dark and very bright. A merry smile played over his features. Every fellow in the group knew that that smile meant "good will toward men." His hiking trousers bagged about the tops of his high mountain boots, and his sweater bore the marks of many a camping trip. He always wore on such occasions as this an old felt hat, which had the initials of many a stanch, good, out-of-door companion printed on it. There was the color and vigor of health in his face, and his movements were swift and powerful. He was a splendid specimen of a clean, unselfish college man who loved God, His out-of-doors, and all his fellow-men. There was not a man in the community who had such an influence, or for whom the boys felt such profound respect, as Allen. He was a "square deal" personified. Many were the personal differences of the fellows that were submitted to him free-willed for arbitration. His Department was his kingdom, and these fellows his stanch and loyal supporters. Where he led they followed, always knowing it was for some good purpose. Meanness, like a wolf in the night, slunk away when he came upon it. Smut and slander knew they had no chance in his presence. To these fellows, and many more who knew him, he stood as a confidential friend and counselor, and was as a father to many a boy in the time of trouble. Many were the fathers who would have given a good deal to have held the place in their sons' estimations that Mr. Allen did.
The trip that night did several things for Willis. It told him plainly that he was going to be an ardent lover of the mountains and life in them, just as he had dreamed and hoped he might.
Several weeks later, when Willis came home one evening, he found his mother waiting for him at the door with an envelope in her hand. Willis had told his mother all about his trip to the "Gulch," and had confessed to her how proud he would be to become a member of "O.F.F." A warm friendship had sprung up between Chuck and himself, and he was learning to be happy in the companionship of that crowd. He eagerly reached for the envelope, and, opening it, read aloud:
"Next Friday evening 'O.F.F.' will hold an outing meeting in Williams Canyon. We will first take you through Huccacode Cave, then we will have supper on Pinion Crag. We will hold our meeting about the council fire, at which time we will be very pleased to extend to you the right hand of fellowship, and make you a full-fledged member of 'O.F.F.'
"ROBT. DENNIS,
President."
"Isn't that great, mother! I'm really to be a member of the very best Bible group at the Association. It's a club, too, you know, and holds every member to a clean standard of life in work and play. Every Saturday night they meet at the Association for supper and a half-hour of Bible study. Mr. Allen is teacher, but they all do a lot of talking. O, it's great! I'm tickled to death! I want you to know every one of those fellows, mother. Sleepy is the poorest man—besides me, of course. I can't say I like him so well. He's a little sneaky, I think. Chuck told me they took him in because Mr. Allen wanted them to. The 'Chief' says he has a pile of good in him, if we can just get it out. He has been awfully nice to me, though. He talks camera to me almost every time I see him. I showed him the pictures I made last spring of the thrush's nest, and he was crazy over them. I'm going to teach him how to photograph flowers and birds and nature. I'm glad I can do something that's worth while, or I'd feel unhappy in that bunch. Sleepy has a wireless outfit and knows all about electricity. Shorty Wier works in the Strang Garage. He is a shark in school and a fiend at basket ball. He doesn't say much, but he is a dandy. Chuck is interested in debates, and will represent the school in the interscholastic contest next fall. He can talk about anything, and has 'pep,' I tell you. And Mr. Allen is a nature student. Gee! won't we have a circus talking bugs and flowers and birds. Fat draws and does lettering. O yes, and Ham—I mustn't leave out Ham—he is the Billikin of the crowd. When you feel down in the mouth or blue, just look at Ham and it makes you laugh. He likes everybody except the girls, and everybody likes him. He knows more funny stories than all the rest put together. Ham's the one that always gets the fire ready to light and passes the 'eats,' he's—"
"Well, son, I think you are fortunate in being able to find such companions, and in having such a place as the Association to spend your leisure time. I think it is a great thing. I hope you will make the most of the opportunity. I have about decided we had better stay here through the winter, for I am very sure Aunt Lucy can not last until spring. I feel so sorry for Uncle."
* * * * *
Friday came at last, and was one of those grand June evenings when everything seemed to be bursting with the love of life. The new green leaves danced in the breeze, as if saying, "See, I'm back again!" Here and there a fragrant fruit tree gave forth its odor from snowy blossoms, and innumerable spring insects flocked to the arc lights at the corners.
It was a happy, healthy crowd of boys that boarded the street car for Manitou. High-boots, sweaters, slouch hats, cameras, and a plentiful supply of good food. From the hip-pockets of the trousers tallow candles showed, and one fellow carried a good supply of mason's cord, wound upon a paddle. Then there was the coffee-pot, which was really an honorary member of the club, and numerous packages done up in paper.
The fellows loved Williams just at twilight, for it was then that the fantastic shapes and high pinnacles of white limestone made their best impression. The long, irregular shadows that were thrown across the canyon by the setting sun, the cool pine-scented breeze that carried every sound down the narrow crevice, the echoing of every laugh and halloo added much to the enjoyment and comradeship of the little group. Who could be unhappy or unfriendly on such a night and in such a place?