"We'd ought a' be in at 7.42," replied the colored man, "but we's a leetle late this mornin', sah. Probably we'll arrive 'bout eight o'clock. Feelin' purty peart this mornin', sah?" "Yes, I do feel pretty good," replied Roger, who really did seem better than he had in some weeks. "I didn't think I'd sleep much, but I did." "Oh, these here is great beds fo' sleepin'," commented the porter, grinning once more, and causing Roger to wonder, if he smiled any larger, whether the top of his head wouldn't come off. It was just ten minutes past eight when the train rolled along one of the main streets of Syracuse, and into the dingy depot, near the centre of the city. Roger was out on the vestibuled platform before the wheels stopped screeching under the force of the brakes. He was watching among the crowd under the shed for a tall man, with a big nose, a light sandy moustache and bright blue eyes, for thus his mother had described his Uncle Bert to him. He looked at several men. The first one had everything but the blue eyes. The second one all the characteristics save the sandy moustache. But the third man, on whom he fixed his attention, Roger knew was Mr. Kimball. He waved his hand, and was glad to see the man wave back. The next minute the train stopped, and the blue-eyed uncle was ready to reach up for his nephew. "Is this here Roger Anderson?" came from beneath the light sandy moustache, in a pleasant though high-pitched voice. "I'm Roger; are you Uncle Bert?" asked the boy. "Wa'al, I reckon thet's what! Guessed ye th' fust time, didn't I," and this fact seemed to give Mr. Kimball so much pleasure that he laughed with a heartiness which made several smile. "Wa'al now, but d'ye know, I'm glad t' see ye! Ye're a leetle late, but land love ye, comin' three hunderd miles is no joke. I calalate I'd be a trifle behindhand myself. Now, let's hev yer satchel, 'n' we'll go 'n' git some breakfust. I ain't eat yit. Ye see I come out from Cardiff yist'day, hevin' t' do some tradin', 'n' I stayed over night at th' Candee House, so's t' be on hand t' meet ye. I told th' waiter at my table I'd hev a hungry boy back 'ith me soon. Ye be hungry, ain't ye?" with rather an anxious look at Roger. "Well, not so very," admitted the boy, wondering a little at the strange sounding talk of his uncle, who spoke the central New York farmers' homely but comprehensive dialect. "Oh, shucks now!" exclaimed Mr. Kimball. "I were calalatin' on seein' ye race 'ith me eatin' ham 'n' eggs 'n' bread 'n' butter," and he seemed a bit disappointed. "Howsomever we'll remedy thet when we git ye out t' Cardiff. 'Fore ye've been thar a week I'll hev ye eatin' salt-risin' bread, covered 'ith butter 'n' honey--say 'j ever tackle real fresh salt-risin' bread, spread thick 'ith nice brown buckwheat honey, right outen th' hives?" "I never did," confessed Roger.