[Illustration: WRECKS OF THE TORNADO.] Every morning saw me on some new drive, either with a wagon full of merry company, or as alone with Mr. Snug we held our quiet _tête-à-tête_ on wheels, living over the olden times. In the afternoon I strolled by myself through the old and eloquent scenes. A volume could not hold the memories they revived--no, not even those of yonder barn alone. Even as I sit making my pencil-sketch, its reminiscences seem to float across the vision. Distinctly it recalls the events of one evening years ago. It was at about the sunset hour one Friday. I was quietly sitting on a lounge in the parlor talking to Cuthbert Harding, who was standing in front of me. Presently the door opens, and the tall figure of Dick Shin enters. Dick and I were antipodes in every sense of the word. Physically we were as a match and a billiard ball, he being the lucifer. He was also my _bête noire_, and he never missed an opportunity to vent his spite. Accordingly he stalked toward us, and with a violent push sent Cuthbert pell-mell on to me. In falling, he stepped heavily on my foot, and hurt me severely, which accounted for my excited expression as I threw him from me. Of course Mr. Snug had to come in just at this time, and seeing us in what looked to him very like a fight, he took us firmly by the ears and stood us side by side, while I ventured to explain. “Not a word!” exclaimed he, in a tone there was no mistaking. “You two boys may cool off on a trip to Moody Barn, after which you will report to me in the Tower. Now go.” Whatever may have been the state of my mind a few moments before, I was now mad in earnest, and with every bit of my latent obstinacy aroused, I sauntered out on to the porch. “Cool off, old boy,” whispered a grating voice at my side, as I turned and met the gaze of Dick Shin, motioning with his thumb in the direction of Moody Barn--“cool off; you need it;” and his ample mouth stretched into a sneering grin. I had already formed an intention, but now it was a resolve. “Cuthbert,” said I to my quiet and less choleric companion, when some distance down the road, “I am not going on that trip.” “Not going!” replied he, with surprise; “why, you’ll _have_ to go.” “But I _won’t_ go, and that settles it. It’s confounded unjust that we’re sent, anyhow, and I don’t propose to stand it.” “I think so too,” answered Cuthbert, with hesitating emphasis; “but what’ll we do? We’ll have to report to Mr. Snug, you know; that’s the _worst_ of it.” “Well, I’ll be spokesman, and I’ll _lie_ before I’ll go on that trip.”