"As wise as Socrates," answered Derrick. Not having had Derrick's education, Paul did not know who Socrates was, but the name pleased him, and he said it over softly to himself--"Socrates, Soc, Socrates. That's what I'm going to call him, Derrick--'Socrates.' I've seen him round here two or three times this morning, and every time he's sat up just like that, and looked as if he knew all that I was thinking about. I believe he could tell how old the ferns are." "I don't believe they're as old as he is," replied Derrick, laughing. The rat did not seem to like this, for at Derrick's laughter he gave a little squeak and darted away, disappearing beneath the door. Within five minutes Paul pointed again, and there sat the rat in precisely the same position as before. "Perhaps this is what he wants," said Paul, throwing a bit of bread towards the rat. Approaching it cautiously, the beast first smelled of it, and then seizing it in his mouth again darted beneath the door. Several times did he thus come for food, but he always carried it away without stopping to eat even a crumb. "He must have a large and hungry family," said Derrick. "Or else it isn't his dinner-hour yet, and he is waiting for the proper time to eat," laughed Paul. Always after this Socrates the rat was a regular attendant upon the boys at lunch-time, and he never failed to receive a share of whatever they had to eat. Often at other times, when no sound save the steady gurgle of the black water beneath him broke the tomb-like silence of the gangway, Paul would see the little beady eyes flashing here and there in the dim lamplight, and would feel a sense of companionship very comforting to his loneliness. At such times Paul would talk to the rat about the queer pictures on the walls, and ask him questions concerning them. For hours he talked thus to his wise-looking companion, until he began to believe that the rat understood him, and could really answer if he chose. Sometimes when he was asked a question he could not answer, he would reply, "I don't know, but I'll speak to Socrates about it"; and at the first opportunity he would explain the whole difficulty to his gray-whiskered friend. Frequently, by thus thinking and talking the matter over, he would arrive at some conclusion, more or less correct, and this he would report as "What Socrates thinks." At noon that day Monk Tooley, as usual, ate his lunch and smoked his pipe with Job Taskar in the blacksmith's shop; but he was very quiet, and not inclined to be talkative as was his habit. When he left, the blacksmith's helper slipped out after him, and saying, "'Ere's summut I think belongs to you, Mr. Tooley," handed him three bits of wood, on each of which was deeply scored M. T. "My lost checks!" exclaimed the miner. "Where'd yer get 'em, Boodle?" "They dropped out hof Taskar's pocket when 'e flung hoff 'is coat this mornin', and hi picked 'em hup unbeknownst to 'im."