It was about midnight when Tim awoke. It was raining hard, and he lay in a puddle of water. Every garment he wore was soaked through and through. To his stupefied mind, at last came the light, and he groped around and tried to make out his surroundings. He stumbled over a wheel and other portions of the wrecked carriage, and finally found the lamp that was formerly attached to the whip socket. About the only dry thing about him, except his parched tongue, was the inside of his tin match safe. He managed to light the lamp. Then its rays showed that the carriage was a hopeless wreck, the horses gone, and that Rodney Darringford was lying in a stupid slumber in a water-filled rut near by. Four of the bottles in the basket were intact, and Tim drained one feverishly. “Here, wake up, Rodney!” he shouted to his companion, shaking him vigorously. “Eh? Lemme be!” “Wake up!” “Won’t!” But Tim maliciously switched Rodney until he aroused to wakefulness. Then he gave him a bottle of wine, pocketed the two others, and taking up the carriage lamp, said: “Come on!” “Where are you going?” asked Rodney irritably. “To find shelter. We’re in an awful fix.” “Yes--clothes are spoiled.” “And rig wrecked. It will cost us something.” “If the man ever sees us again, yes. Ha! ha!” The remaining wine buoyed up the flagging spirits of the two reckless boys and made them forget the chill and rain. They floundered in and out of the swamp and finally reached the higher ground. No lights showed anywhere. Finally, between two hills where the uplands began, Rodney said: “We’ll stay here.” “Oh, no!” “Must; I’m tired.” “But it’s raining!” “Don’t care.” “We must find shelter.” “Find it, then! I’m comfortable here,” replied Rodney obstinately. Tim went on a little way. He made a discovery, and shouted back to his companion: “Come on, Rodney!” “What’s the matter?” “Found a cabin.” “All right.” Rodney staggered after Tim. In a little grove a dismantled hut showed. It had no door, and the window apertures were sashless, but it was a shelter. Tim entered it. The carriage lamp showed a bare interior, a broken bench, a stool, a three-legged table and an enormous fireplace. Rodney lay down on the bench with a grunt of relief, but Tim, shivering with the dampness and cold, proceeded to gather a lot of wood outside. He soon had a rousing fire in the fireplace, and found the door that had been broken off its hinges outside and propped it into place to keep out the wind and rain. “Come, Rodney,” he said to his sleepy companion, “take off some of your clothes and spread them out to dry.” Rodney reluctantly obeyed, and Tim did the same, and their coats, vests, hats and shoes and stockings were soon steaming before the fire. “Where’s your money, Rodney?” asked Tim. “In my pocket.” “Hand it out.” “What for?” “Take it out and see.”