Page after page they conquered. But "asafoetida" was too much for them. Even the schoolma'am wanted two _f's_ in it. She found it hard to give one of them up at the command of a little boy. But he was positive on the subject of one _f_ and the crowd stood with him through perfect faith in his ultimatum. She took her seat. At this the match was over. Every one was spelled down. The sole survivor was the little boy from Kentucky, who stole away with Doby. He did not stay for the praise the spellers wanted to give him. Doby thought, "I s'pose he will be all puffed up about himself." But it was a humble little boy who confessed to Doby: "When I got to page twelve, I couldn't remember--just could _not_ remember what comes after 'potentialities' and 'incomprehensibility' except 'asafoetida.' If they had spelled that word--that 'asafoetida'--I could not have told them the next word. _I did not know what it was._" Doby was appalled, as well he might be, by this narrow escape. What if they had failed? That their plan had ended fortunately moved him to say, earnestly: "I like you. I am going to give you my New England primer to remember me by. It's got pictures in it. I don't need it any more. I'll put my name on the back cover, then you can always see who gave it to you. The schoolma'am loaned me this lead on purpose so we can do good printing." And he set down primly the letters, OBADIAH HOLMAN. "Now," he continued, passing over the lead, "you can have your name in the front to show that it is your book." Smiling happily at the giver and the gift, the little boy from Kentucky, who was soon to become a Hoosier, carefully wrote his name. Doby, straining his eyes in the moonlight, looked over his shoulder and read the words, ABRAHAM LINCOLN. XI A PIONEER PUPPY _A Wagon-train Besieged by Fire and Wolves_ "SMOKE!" cried Obadiah Holman. "Smoke!" The men of the wagon-train drew together anxiously. They, too, had smelled smoke. But no one of them had wanted to say so. Now they all agreed, "Yes, Doby," and nodded. Their eyes were on the horizon. It was near the end of a hot day in July and quite time to go into camp for the night. The marsh-grass bottoms of a network of creeks had so withered in a long "dry spell," that their green plants had become like tinder. The emigrants were afraid to stop or to make supper fires in such a dangerous spot. One spark might set the whole wide bottom ablaze. No wonder then that they moved along as rapidly as they could and gazed at one another in quick alarm at the coming of an acrid current of air. While they debated what to do the breeze increased. Smoke-clouds tumbled in the northwest. A droning like the hum of distant bees came to their ears.