“Spouting for the eats” has come to be quite a joke with us. We stop near some farmhouse and Dan goes in for water. Presently along come the kids and watch our camp preparations with much interest. Usually they are followed by father or mother, or, perchance, a grown son, who at once becomes absorbed in the tale of our adventures. Soon the whole family may be seen crouched around our little fire, which illuminates the eager faces as they drink in every word with ears and mouth and eyes. Dan fumbles about with the camp kettle and I break off in the middle of some exciting incident to attend to the preparations for supper. Somebody wakes up to the need for milk and eggs, which, of course, are difficult to carry with us. It is usually about milking time, and at a word from some grown-up a child scurries off and proudly returns with a pail of new milk and a hatful of eggs, which he shyly presents to me. The eggs are boiled and eaten from the shell, and the cocoa made from undiluted new milk is a beverage fit for the gods. In other instances, we are invited into the house and sit down to a real country supper. After the meal I resume the interrupted narrative and entertain our hosts with descriptions of life in Chicago, the San Francisco earthquake, and incidents of interest along the way. Quite frequently I advise a change of diet and care for some puny infant, or diagnose the case of an ailing mother and risk the leaving of a prescription to be filled when we are well on our journey. Next morning the family assembles to see us start. We exchange names and addresses, and as we ride away, we feel that a new bond of friendship has been established. Near a little place called Gibbon our rear tire gave out, and while making the change, a farmer invited us to his home to eat supper and spend the night. After considerable trouble with the wheel, we started on shortly after noon next day, but had not gone far when we saw dense, black clouds piling up ahead. We rode hard for some time, then rain began to fall and we stopped beneath a cattle shed. The rain slackened and we rode on, but had not proceeded any great distance when we noticed a very severe storm raging in the northwest. Soon great gusts of wind came whirling across the prairie, while rain and sleet whipped our faces. There was no shelter near, so we determined to struggle on and reach Kearney if possible. A train steamed past, with passengers leaning from the windows and waving their arms in great excitement. Glancing about to learn the cause of the commotion, I looked toward the south and nearly fell from the wheel. A cyclone was bounding across the country and as I gazed it whirled a building into the air, then dashed it to earth, where it flew into a thousand fragments.