There was a late twilight glow in the northern sky and the smell of dew on the prairie grass filled the air when Spoof decided it was time to go home. We helped him bind up his broken reach and hitch the "bally bullocks" to the wagon and watched him disappear into the darkness. Long after he was lost to sight the rumble of his wagon and the voice of his exhortation could be heard welling up out of the distance. "A fine chap," said Jack, as we parted for the night. "I am glad we are to have him for a neighbour." "Yes," said I. But my voice had no ring of enthusiasm. CHAPTER IX. The day after Spoof's visit I was plowing with the oxen, followed by an Indian file of expectant blackbirds trailing along in my fresh-turned furrow, when I suddenly became aware of Jack running toward me. He pointed in the direction of Spoof's homestead, and I turned my face to the south. A pillar of creamish-blue smoke rose like a sacrificial column from section Two; rose until it thinned and flattened out against the still, warm, summer heaven. "What do you make of it?" said Jack, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. I was seized with a sudden and far-fetched sense of humor. "Spoof has taken your advice about the tiger lilies, and is roasting a wild duck," I suggested. "At any rate," Jack retorted, "he has a fire on his hands, and he's just as likely to scatter it as to put it out. Lucky for him the grass is still green, and there's hardly a puff of wind. Shall we hoof it, or ride the 'bullocks?'" "Ride them, and save our breath for fire-fighting," I said, with unusual wisdom, as I began to pull the harness from the oxen. Buck and Bright were by this time fairly accustomed to strange creatures like Jack and me perched on their broad backs, with our legs hooped about their big, flat ribs, and, if the truth must be told, even Jean and Marjorie had made use of them for locomotion in a similar way. At first the oxen had rewarded their riders with a wholly unprecedented burst of speed, but the novelty had soon worn off, and as we now swung ourselves upon them they responded to our urgings with the most unconcerned deliberation. We headed them across the prairie in the direction of section Two, inducing such speed as we could by means of language and the vigorous application of our boot heels. Soon the fire could be discerned on that part of Spoof's farm where he was engaged in putting up hay. The column of smoke was thinning out; fading into the blue blurr of infinitude; it looked as though the excitement would be quite over before we could arrive. However, we were now bent upon paying Spoof a neighbourly call in any case, and when at last our oxen lumbered up we found him gazing somewhat ruefully upon a heap of smouldering embers. The tires of his wagon, grey-red with heat, peered like coiled serpents from under a blanket of ashes. "What's the matter, Spoof?" we hailed him. "A cigarette butt?"