from.

"Didn't know there was anybody round here, did yer?" continued the voice, while the body still remained hidden from view.

Again Tim tried to discover the speaker, and failing in the attempt, he asked, in a sort of frightened desperation, "Who are you anyhow?"

"Call off yer dog, and I'll show yer."

These words made Tim feel very much braver, for they showed that the speaker as well as himself was frightened, and he lost no time in reducing Tip to a state of subjection by clasping him firmly around the neck.

"Now come out; he wouldn't hurt a fly, an' it's only his way to bark when he's kinder scared."

Thus urged, the party afraid of the dog came out of his place of hiding, which was none other than the branches of a tree, by simply dropping to the ground—a proceeding which gave another shock to the nerves of both Tim and Tip.

But there was nothing about him very alarming, and when Tim had a full view of him, he was inclined to be angry with himself for having allowed so short a boy to frighten him. He was no taller than Tim, and as near as could be seen in the dim light, about as broad as he was long—a perfect ball of jelly, with a face, two legs, and two arms carved on it.

It was impossible to gain a good view of his face, but that did not trouble Tim, who was only anxious to learn who this boy was, and whether he might be sufficiently acquainted with Captain Babbige to send him news of the runaway.

The new-comer did not appear to be in any hurry to begin the conversation, but stood with his hands in his pockets, eying Tim as though he was some strange animal who might be expected to cut up queer sort of antics at any moment.

"Hullo!" said Tim, after he thought the fat boy had looked at him quite as long as was necessary.

"Hullo!" was the reply.

"Where did you come from?"

"Outer that tree there," replied the boy, gravely, as he pointed to the place where he had been hiding.

"Yes, I saw you come out of there; but that ain't where you live, is it?"

"No."

"Where do you live?" And Tim was beginning to think that it required a great deal of labor to extract a small amount of knowledge from this fat party.

"Oh, I live over the hill, about half a mile down the road. Got anything good to eat?"

The question seemed so unnecessary and out of place, considering all the circumstances, that Tim took no notice of it, but asked, "What's your name?"

"Sam."

"Sam what?"

"I dunno, but I guess it's Simpson."

"Well, you're funny, if you ain't sure what your name is," said Tim, thoughtfully, forgetting his own troubles in his curiosity about this queer specimen. "What makes you think your name's Simpson?"

"'Cause that's my father's name."

By this time Tim had released his hold of Tip's neck, and the dog walked around Sam on a sort of smelling tour, very much to the boy's discomfort.

"Don't be afraid," said Tim; "he won't bite you. He's the best dog in the world if you only let him alone."

"I'll let him alone," replied Sam, still in doubt as to Tip's good intentions—"I'll let him alone, an' I wish he'd let me alone."

"He's only kinder gettin' acquainted, that's all. Say, do you s'pose your father would let me sleep in his barn to-night?"

"I dunno. What do you want to for?"

"'Cause I ain't got any other place."

If Sam hadn't been so fat, he would probably have started in surprise; but as it was, he expressed his astonishment by a kind of grunt, and going nearer to Tim he asked, "Where do you live?'

"Nowhere. Me an' Tip are tryin' to find some place where we can earn our own livin'," replied Tim, in doubt as to whether he ought to tell this boy his whole story or not.

"Ain't you got any father or mother?"

"No," was the sad reply. "They're both dead, an' me an' Tip have to look out for ourselves. We did live with Captain Babbige, but we couldn't stand it any longer, an' so we started out on our own hook."

"Where do you get things to eat?"

"We've got some money to buy 'em with."

"How much you got?"

"I had two cents when I left Selman, an' Mr. Sullivan, that keeps a store down to the mills, gave me two dollars."

"I'll tell you what let's do," said Sam, eagerly, as his eyes sparkled with delight. "Jest the other side of my house there's a store, an' we can go down there an' get two big sticks of candy, an' have an awful good time."

Tim reflected a moment. He knew that he ought to keep his money; but Sam's idea seemed such a good one that the thought of the pleasure which would come with the eating of the candy was too much for his notions of economy; therefore he compromised by saying, "I will, if you'll let me sleep in your barn."

Sam quickly agreed to that (in order to get the candy he would probably have promised to give the entire farm away), and the three—Sam, Tim, and Tip—started off, the best of friends.

But before they had gone very far, Sam stopped in the middle of the road, as he said, mournfully, "My! but I forgot all about the cow."

"What cow?"

"Father sent me down here to find old Whiteface, an' I forgot all about her when I saw you."

"Well, why don't you find her now? Me an' Tip will help you."

"But it'll take so long, an' before we get back the store will be shut up," objected Sam, who stood undecided in the road, as if he had half a mind to leave old Whiteface to her fate while he made sure of the candy.

"Never mind if the store is shut up," said Tim, earnestly. "We can get the candy just as well in the morning, an' perhaps we'll find her so quick that there'll be plenty of time."

"Will you buy the candy in the mornin' if you don't to-night?"

"Yes, I will, honest."

"Cross your throat."

Tim went through the ceremony of crossing his throat to make his promise more solemn, and search was made for the cow.

Up to this time it was plain that Sam did not feel any great amount of love for or confidence in Tip; but when, after a few moments' search, his loud bark told that he had discovered the missing cow, his future was assured so far as Sam Simpson was concerned.

"Now that's somethin' like," he said, after they had started homeward. "When you've got such a dog as that, all a feller's got to do is to sit down an' send him after 'em. It's the awfulest hateful thing in the world to go off huntin' cows when you don't want to."

Tim had many and serious doubts as to whether Tip could be depended on to go for the cows alone, but he did not think it best to put those doubts in words, lest he should deprive his pet of his new-found friend.

It was only a ten minutes' walk to Sam's home, and when the cow had been led to her stall Tim proposed that Sam should ask permission for him to sleep in the barn.

"There's time enough for that when we come back," was Sam's reply, the thought of the candy he was to have in case they reached the store before it was closed for the night driving all else from his mind. "Come on; we'll catch Mr. Coburn if we hurry."

Now Tim would much rather have had the question settled as to his sleeping quarters before starting out for pleasure; but Sam was so eager for the promised feast that he felt obliged to do as he said, more especially since it was through his influence that he hoped to receive the favor.

Naturally Sam Simpson was not a quick-motioned boy, but no one could have complained of the speed with which he went toward Mr. Coburn's store that night, and Tim found it hard work to keep pace with him.

The store was open, but the proprietor was just making preparations for closing. The candy, placed in two rather dirty glass jars, was in its accustomed place, and beamed down upon them in all its sticky sweetness, delighting Sam simply by the view to such an extent that his face was covered with smiles.

With a gravity befitting the occasion and the amount