As Archie McCormick struck out along the forest path which led to Lysander Cobmore’s farm he was not especially pleased to have Percy Joblots tagging along behind. He would much rather have been alone. There was so much to think of and plan out that he would have liked to be able to give his whole mind to it instead of having to think of this little whipper-snapper who, from the first, seemed to have considerable difficulty in keeping up with the Yale man’s long stride. “You mutht be in an awful hurry,” he panted, after they had gone about half a mile. “I am,” snapped McCormick, without looking back. There was silence for a few moments, broken only by the labored breathing of Percy. “Grathiouth thaketh!” he gasped presently. “I’m motht dead. Couldn’t you walk a little thlower for jutlit a few minuteth?” Growling an irritated response, Archie slowed down a little, but very soon was back at the old speed. He really did not intend to hustle so, but his mind was so wholly given over to the problem which he had to solve that, unconsciously, he almost flew over the rough path. “Merthy!” moaned Joblots, mopping his face with a delicate linen handkerchief. “Thith ith awful!” McCormick did not hear him, so preoccupied was he, and the dapper little fellow struggled on for a quarter of a mile farther in panting silence. “Can’t we retht for jutht a minute?” he begged, at the end of that time. Archie whirled around swiftly. “Why the dickens do you want to rest?” he demanded fiercely. “I didn’t ask you to come with me! I’ve got to get to Middleberry as quick as I possibly can, and here you drag along and talk about wanting to rest. Gee! It’s enough to try the patience of a saint.” Joblots shrank back and instinctively put up a defensive arm. Apparently he was afraid Mac was going to hit him, and the look of fear on his puny, insignificant face brought the big Yale man swiftly to his senses. “Don’t be a fool!” he growled, in an apologetic tone. “You don’t think I’d hit you, I hope? I suppose I was a bit sharp, but you mustn’t mind what I said. I’m worried clean out of my head, almost, about something. We’ll rest a little and then take it slower.” Joblots instantly plucked up heart at this and became all smiles. They stopped for a few minutes and then went on again at moderate speed, and all the way through the woods he drove McCormick almost wild with his well-meant, but perfectly idiotic, chatter. At last, to McCormick’s infinite relief, the farmhouse was in sight. Cobmore was at home, and, after a little persuasion, was induced to let Archie borrow a horse and buggy to take him in to town. He seemed to be a little curious as to the reason for the trip, but the Yale man was not communicative, so the farmer was obliged to content himself with sly twitting of Joblots, who appeared to be absolutely oblivious to his banter.