The day was fair and, for the latter part of October in that region, quite warm. Along Oak Street many of the residents were on their porches, and the sight of the boy in the wheel chair created much interest and curiosity. Clif was conscious of the craning necks and low-voiced comments, but Loring seemed not to be aware of them. Perhaps, Clif thought, you got used to that sort of thing after a while. They went through the village and then westward and came to a halt at last beside the little river where the end of the old covered bridge offered a sheltered, sunny nook. Clif and Tom climbed to the top of a fence. Loring, supplied with a willow wand at his request, trimmed it with his knife and whittled contentedly while conversation roamed from one subject to another. They were on a little-traveled road and the only vehicle to rattle across the bridge during their sojourn was an old buggy drawn by a fat gray horse and occupied by a roly-poly old man who gave them a cheerful “Afternoon, boys,” and painstakingly forbore to stare at Loring. Loring’s gaze followed the retreating figure and he smiled. “He wanted so much to take a good look, too,” said Loring. “Nice old codger. I almost wanted to tell him I didn’t mind.” “I guess you’re pretty used to it,” Tom mused. “Say, how long have you been this way?” Clif looked startled, but Loring only smiled as he answered: “Sixteen years and seven months, Tom.” “Six――you mean _always_?” “Ever since I was born.” “Gosh! Can’t they do anything? What’s it like?” Clif thought the questions in rather poor taste and looked apologetic on his friend’s behalf, but Loring didn’t appear to mind. “They haven’t done much yet,” he answered. “I’ve been treated by a lot of doctors, here and abroad, but nothing much has come of it. My leg bones don’t pick out the right food to grow on, it seems. They’re too fond of lime. Calcification the doctors call it. That and a lot of other things. Usually each one has his own pet name for it. Anyway, there’s too much chalk in those bones down there, and if I ever got mad with you, Tom, and kicked you, you’d have the laugh on me because I’d break my leg. They’re so brittle they’re no use at all as legs. Sometimes I think it would be better to get rid of them and save the price of shoes and stockings, but no one else seems to. The doctor father is supporting now makes believe I’ll be able to use the silly things some day; says that as I get older the bone structure will get more sense. I don’t know, though.” “But don’t you do anything for it?” asked Clif. “Oh, yes, I’m on a funny diet, for one thing. You’d be surprised, fellows, to know what perfectly innocent looking things contain lime! And this doctor’s working on the theory that if I don’t give the bones enough lime to suit them they’ll get discouraged and use something else. Then poor old Wattles has to take me to walk every morning and night.” “Take you to walk!” exclaimed Tom incredulously.