“Now, Zeb, ye spalpeen, get out wid yer nonsense,” growled Pat, with a very uneasy expression on his dusty face. “The boord’s all right. Jist shtrip an’ thry it wanst.” “No, thank you,” said Zeb. “Did you really mean to murder old Gershom? And now you’re going to try it again. I’d never thought that of you, Pat.” “Go ’long wid yez!” laughed the Irishman. “Yer at the bottom of all the mischief there is. I hope there’ll be young gintlemin from the city, the now, that’ll tache ye manners. It’s waitin’ for thim, I am.” “Drown ’em, shall you?” said Zeb. “But what’ll Gershom say to that? I’ll have to be down here in my boat all the while.” “I owe ye one, Zeb Fuller!” exclaimed Pat, with a sudden and very warm burst of grateful recollection. “Ave yer iver in a schrape and want a frind, just come to owld Pat Murphy, that’s all. It was mesilf didn’t want to shpile the fun of yez. That’s all.” “If we hadn’t been on hand it would have been spoiled pretty badly,” moralized Zeb. “I’m going for a pull in the boat now, myself. Give my love to Gershom when he comes, and tell him he’s a nice boy.” A queer duck was Zeb Fuller, but, by the time he had floated vaguely up and down the pond two or three times, he had very fairly matured his plans for operating upon Dr. Dryer and preventing the doors of the Academy from being closed against him. That day was an unusually busy one for Ogleport, in vacation-time, for every gossip in the village had notes to compare with every other, but Zeb Fuller was among the invisible all day, and he retired to rest at an hour which gave his father renewed hopes of the bright future which lay before his heir. No pains were taken, however, to ascertain whether Zeb’s pillow was constantly occupied through the night-watches, and all the deacon was absolutely sure of was, that he had some difficulty in stirring him up in the morning. “How’s this, Zeb?” asked his father, as Zeb came sleepily poking down the stairs. “I’m sure you went to bed early enough.” “That’s it,” said Zeb. “The longer I sleep the better I seem to know how. If I keep on learning, I may be able to sleep a week, some of these long nights.” “Get away with the cows, then. You won’t get any breakfast, now, till you come back. Hullo, there’s Dr. Dryer at the gate. What’s up now?” Quite enough, one would think, and it was a very natural instinct which led the doctor to that particular house with his story. Not a hoof had his red-headed errand-boy found in his lot back of his barn, that morning. Gate wide open. Cows gone, nobody knew whither. “Something sure to happen in this place every time I oversleep myself,” exclaimed Zeb. “Do you think they’re stolen, Doctor, or did that little scamp of yours leave your gate open and let ’em run away?” “Run away? Hope that’s all,” said the deacon. “Have you looked for them?” “Everywhere,” replied the doctor, who had been narrowly eying Zebedee.