“I didn’t see him go out,” said Minerva, sullenly. It was plain to be seen that her sympathies were not with the myrmidon of the law. “I am not afraid of this law,” said I. “I fished innocently and I am willing to pay the fine. I will also consider it my duty to tell the judge that you attempted to compromise with me on a money basis.” His manner changed in a twinkling. “See here,” said he. “You’re a stranger up here and you’re from the city. It’s easy to see that. I’ll tell you what I’ll do.” He walked slowly over to his wagon, holding the string of fish in front of him, while he gazed at them thoughtfully. He climbed into the wagon and seemed to be hunting for something under the seat. He soon found it. It was the whip. He applied it to the horse and the animal responded in a spurt of speed that took him out of sight before we realized what had happened. Our fish lunch was gone. “I’m glad it ended that way,” said Ethel. I looked at her and saw that she was rather pale. “It would have been dreadful if he had arrested you.” “I think I’d like to be the game warden,” said I, “if people generally are innocent of the law. But he was afraid of my bribery talk.” It may have been five minutes later that Bert drove over to the house on his way to town. He had with him another dish of brains. “Bert,” said I, “When does the law on trout go on?” “First of July,” said he. “What’s the name of the game warden?” “Why, father. Been fishin’?” said he, with a laugh. “Yes, but that wasn’t your father that you must have just passed.” “No,” said he. “That’s Cy Holden.” He laughed reminiscently. “Cy’s a great boy.” “How is he great?” “Oh, he’s always playing practical jokes,” said he. “Much obliged for the brains,” said I. “We’ll have them for lunch.” ------------------------------------------------------------------------ CHAPTER XVII THE STORY OF A PIPE. I SUPPOSE that there are prettier places in the world than western Massachusetts, although I should consider it a profitless task to try to find them, but whether it arose from the beauty of the scenery or the witchery of the mountain air, certain it is that we have never stayed at a country place that exercised such a charm over us as did the rolling hills and valleys around Clover Lodge. Ethel was not less under its influence than I, and we have seen how Minerva, coming there with an evident and pronounced disgust for it, was now coming to look on it as home.