Bruno passed an arm caressingly over those shoulders, murmuring words of comfort, earnestly promising to never sin again in like manner, provided he could find forgiveness now. And then, with deft touch, that same hand held his garment far enough for its mate to let slip a wriggling trout adown his brother's back. Waldo howled and jumped wildly, as the cold morsel slipped along his spine, and ducking out of reach, the elder jester called back: “Land him, boy, and you've caught another fish!” Although laughing heartily himself, Professor Featherwit deemed it a part of wisdom to interfere now, and, ere long, matters quieted down, all hands engaged in preparing the morning meal, for which all teeth were now fairly on edge. If good nature had been at all disturbed, long before that breakfast was despatched it was fully restored, and of the trio, Waldo appeared to be the most enthusiastic over present prospects. “Why, just think of it, will you?” he declaimed, as well as might be with mouth full of crisply fried mountain trout, “where the game comes begging for you to bowl it over, and the very fish try to jump into your pockets--” “Or down your back, Amerigo,” interjected Bruno, with a grin. “Button up, or you'll turn to be a Sorry-cus--tomer, old man,” came the swift retort, with a portentous frown. “But, joking aside, why not? With such hunting and fishing, I'd be willing to sign a contract for a round year in this region.” “To say nothing of exploration, and such discoveries as naturally attend upon--” “Then you really mean it all, uncle Phaeton?” Leaning back far enough to pluck a handful of green leaves, which fairly well served the purpose of a napkin, Professor Featherwit brought forth pipe and pouch, maintaining silence until the fragrant tobacco was well alight. Then he gave a vigorous nod of his head, to utter: “It has been the dearest dream of my life for more years gone by than you would readily credit, my lads; or, in fact, than I would be wholly willing to confess. And it was with an eye single to this very adventure that I laboured to devise and perfect yonder machine.” “A marvel in itself, uncle Phaeton. Only for that, where would we have been, yesterday?” seriously spoke the elder Gillespie. “I know where we wouldn't have been: inside that blessed cy-nado!” “Nor here, where you can catch brook trout in your clothes without the trouble of taking them off, youngster.” “And where you'll catch a precious hiding, without you let up harping on that old string; it's way out of tune already, old man.” “Tit for tat. Excuse us, please, uncle Phaeton. We're like colts in fresh pasture, this morning,” brightly apologised Bruno, for both. Apparently the professor paid no attention to that bit of sparring between his nephews, staring into the glowing camp-fire with eyes which surely saw more than yellow coals or ruddy flames could picture; eyes which burned and sparkled with all the fires of distant youth.