Jake turned to Rose with his explanation: "You see, ma’am, it’s th’ cyclone. I got a’ almanac as says a cyclone is a-comin’ an’ due to-day, an’ I did n’t want to be blown onto th’ top o’ one o’ these yer mountains an’ mebby freeze to death." Rose’s responsive peal of laughter repaid him, and, withering Buck with a look, he retired to the kitchen to cook his magically acquired eggs. The meal was nearly finished when Pickles appeared, late as usual. Ned had been given up by Buck, who explained his absence as probably due to the development of some unexpected duty. Rose, awaiting a more favorable opportunity to introduce the real object of her visit, had deliberately prolonged the enjoyment of listening to his conversation. His friends would not have known the usually taciturn Buck. Quite equal to the production of a flow of language when language was desirable, his calling and environment seldom found it necessary. Indeed, if brevity were the sole ingredient of wit, few men had been wittier. But to-day he surpassed himself in eloquence; and it was in the midst of an unconsciously picturesque narrative that he was interrupted. There came a scramble of hoofs, the slam of a door, a rapid padding of moccasined feet, followed by a yell from Jake and the taunting treble of a boyish voice, and Pickles sped into view, clutching the door frame as he ran, and swinging himself out of range. His back toward them and his head craned in the direction of Jake to insure the full effect of a truly hideous grimace, he jeered that worthy for his bad marksmanship: "Yah! you missed me ag’in! W’y don’t you use a gun like a man?" and by way of emphasis he shook the light rifle he was carrying. As Jake directed a missile with unerring skill at anything short of a bird on the wing, it is to be presumed that, with Pickles as a mark, he did not try very hard. It is certain that he was chuckling gleefully as he went to pick up the dishcloth, a large remnant of what looked suspiciously like the passing of a blue flannel shirt. Satisfied there was no immediate danger from the rear, Pickles wheeled about. "Buck, I near got—" he stopped short. "Rose!" he exclaimed and looked sharply from her to Buck and back again. "You ain’t a-goin’ to take me back?" he asked, doubtfully. Rose shook her head as she looked at him. It was a new Pickles she saw. The roguish mischief had gone from the eyes which, when he faced them, had been alive with eager intensity; the air of precocious anxiety, tribute to a happy-go-lucky father (oftener "happy" than lucky) had vanished completely; motionless as he stood in his hopeful expectancy, he was aquiver with life. "No, Fritz," she assured him, "M’sieu Peters, he need you—more than me—yes."