process of training. At length he took a big dollar watch from his pocket and consulted it.

"Jumpin' Jehoshaphat!" he exclaimed. "I didn't know it was gettin' so late. I'll have to be hurryin' along. Say," he added, a little wistfully, "come up to my house and see me sometime, won't you? I ain't got anything very elegant up there, but I could show you something in the line o' dogs and guns that might interest you."

"Oh, we'd love to, if our folks'll let us," said Ernest. "Where do you live?"

Sam gave them careful directions.

"First and third Tuesdays used to be my days for callers, but nobody came," said he, as he started up the road with Nan. "So now any old day will do—if I'm home."

"How about next Saturday?" asked Ernest.

"Saturday it is," said Sam Bumpus, and with a wave of his hand he vanished around a bend in the road.

Clothes do not make the man, and boys are apt to overlook certain superficial peculiarities and defects which seem more significant to their elders. In Sam Bumpus they saw only a man of good humor and wonderful wisdom, a man whose manner of life was vastly more interesting than that of the common run of people, whose knowledge of the lore of woods and fields, of dogs and hunting, entitled him to a high place in their estimation. They overlooked the externals, the evidences of poverty and shiftlessness, his lack of education, and saw only his native wit and shrewdness, his kinship with the world of nature, and his goodness of heart. They considered it a piece of rare good fortune to have made the acquaintance of so wise and sympathetic a person and they felt indebted to him for permission to visit him, to hear him talk, and to glean from him something of the knowledge that had come to him through experience.

To Sam Bumpus, however, the obligation seemed to be on the other side. The boys did not know it, but Sam Bumpus was a lonely man and craved human companionship. He lived like a hermit in his little shack in the woods and his peculiarities had set him somewhat apart from the world of men. He had no living relatives, and apart from the old lady in the woods road, the inmates of the Poor Farm, and a few other out-of-the-way people with whom he had been able to win his way through his natural generosity and kindness, he had practically no friends but his dogs. He understood dogs better than he understood men, and, to tell the truth, he esteemed them more highly; yet he sometimes hungered for human comradeship. That two frank-hearted, unspoiled boys should seek him out and seem to desire his company gave him a feeling of unaccustomed satisfaction, and he looked forward to their promised visit fully as eagerly as did the boys themselves.

This proposed visit was such an unusual affair that Ernest Whipple considered it advisable to speak to his father about it. Mr. Whipple was reading his paper and made but little comment, but Mrs. Whipple, who was in the room at the time, raised objections.

"Don't you think it might be unsafe for the boys to go away off there alone?" she asked anxiously. "We don't know anything about this man. He may have a bad influence on them, even if nothing more serious happens to them. He's a very uncouth person, I should say, and hardly a fit companion for little boys."

"Oh, I don't think he'll hurt them," said Mr. Whipple from behind his paper.

But the mother wasn't satisfied, and after the boys had gone to bed she again brought the matter up.

"Well, mother," said Mr. Whipple, "he probably isn't the sort of guide, philosopher, and friend that we would have picked out for the boys, but parents can't always do the picking. They are getting older all the time, and sooner or later they must be thrown on their own resources. Self-reliance doesn't come from constant protection and hemming in. We can't keep them from striking up acquaintances, and before we raise objections we should be sure that they're well grounded; then we shall be able to make our objections count for more."

"But I should think there was good ground for objection in this case," she persisted. "This man seems to be so crude and rough, if nothing worse."

"Oh, he's all right," responded the father. "Don't think I'm careless about these things. I've made some inquiries, and though I find that Bumpus is unconventional and queer, as they say, and improvident and uneducated, he's honest and law-abiding. So far as I can find out, the worst thing he ever does is to give tobacco to the inmates of the Poor Farm. I know people right here on Washburn Street that would do the boys more harm. Just because he doesn't live like folks on Washburn Street doesn't make him bad."

"Well," said Mrs. Whipple, doubtfully, "I suppose you know best, but for my part I would much prefer to keep them safe home with me, for some years to come."

"That's because you've never been a boy," said Mr. Whipple, with a smile in his eyes. "I have, and it doesn't seem so very long ago, either."

Mrs. Whipple was not satisfied, but she did not forbid the proposed visit. The next Saturday, therefore, found them early on their way, filled with joyful anticipations.

Sam's shack, when at last they arrived, proved to be a forlorn affair, built of boards of different widths, some red, some white, and some unpainted. The sagging roof was of corrugated iron and the only chimney was built of cement pipe guyed up with wires. But to the eyes of the boys it was a most attractive abode. Never before had they seen such an interesting house. There must be an element of sport in living in a cabin like this, they thought.

Sam heard their footsteps and met them smilingly at the door. He ushered them at once inside, where he had a wood fire roaring in his stove, for the day was chilly, and he promptly set before them glasses of milk and hot corn bread. Though they had breakfasted only two hours before, they fell to with gusto, for that is the way of boys.

"How do you like my corn bread?" asked Sam.

"M-m!" murmured Jack, taking a fresh bite.

"Do you bake it yourself?" inquired Ernest.

"Sure," said Sam.

"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest, looking up at him with admiration.

After they had fully refreshed themselves, Sam took them out through a back door, from which they could see a number of small structures that looked as though they had been made out of dry-goods boxes. The sound of excited barking smote their ears, a chorus of canine cries and yelps. Old Nan came bounding forward to greet the boys, for she knew them now, and behind her loped a big pointer.

"This is Hillcroft Dick," said Sam, by way of introduction. "He's a famous dog, a champion on the bench and at the trials. He ain't my dog, though. I'm just boardin' him for a man that's gone to California. I wish I owned him, though. He's a great dog."