"It might, although I said that to try you. They do say, though, that 'gators sometimes eat pickaninnies. The Northerners who come down here winters are killing off the 'gators pretty fast, so the pickaninnies are likely to live. Now mind, Beth, don't say a word about my 'gator. You see if my folks heard about it, they might put a stop to my feeding it. They don't think 'gators as nice as I do." "I think they are just horrid." Harvey laughed. "Oh, you'll like them in time." She had her doubts about ever being fond of such pets, but did not say so. "I can't whistle, but would it come if I could whistle, Harvey?" He looked very superior. "No, indeed. It won't come for any one but me." "How did you get it to come for you?" "Well, you see, I used to watch that 'gator in the river; then began bringing food for it. I reckon it thought that an easy way to live, and it soon grew to know me. Then it learned my whistle. That's all." Beth now remembered that her half hour must be more than over. "Harvey, I must go. Good-bye." "Wait a minute. I say, I really like you, and will teach you how to fish some day." This was the greatest compliment he could pay her, for he was an expert angler, and had never allowed a girl to share in the sport with him. Such an invitation as he had just extended surprised even himself, but he actually hoped that it would be accepted. He even decided to set a definite time. "Come here--well, say Monday afternoon between four and five." "I'll come if mamma will let me." "Remember, you mustn't tell any one about the 'gator." "Not even mamma?" "No, indeed. You wouldn't break your word, would you?" "I never do that." "You're a trump, Beth. Good-bye." She skipped back towards the house, revelling in her adventure now that it was over. Being called a trump by Harvey pleased her, but even this praise only half reconciled her for keeping any secret from her mother. Halfway up the avenue, a homely, impudent, scraggy little dog, sprang from among the trees and yelped at Beth. A ragged little darky followed. Beth had never seen any human being quite so ragged. "Come 'way, Fritz. What yo' mean by jumpin' on de missy?" Beth eyed doubtfully both the dog and his master. The latter looked at her reassuringly. "Yo' needn't be 'fraid, missy. I won't let Fritz hurt yo'." "I--afraid--of him! He don't look as if he could harm anything," and Beth laughed. The boy appeared grieved. "Really, missy, he's a wonderful dog. I'll show yo' what he can do. Come, Fritz, dance for missy." The ragged leader held up a warning finger. Fritz wagged his stubby tail, but did not budge. "Come, come, Fritz. Dance for de missy." Fritz wagged his stubby tail more vigorously, but gave no other response. The boy looked wise. "He's bashful, missy, jes' like me. Perhaps, if I whipped him like my mother whips me----" "Does she whip you?"