“Good old Dad!” Paul exclaimed at last. “I can hardly wait to see them!” Dan felt exceedingly uncomfortable in his new clothes. Even though he and Paul had selected suits at very moderate cost, and they were far from perfect in fit, he had never been so well dressed in his life. As he surveyed himself in the mirror, he confided to Paul: “I feels wonderful fine dressed, an’ when I gets home an’ wears these clothes the folks at Ragged Cove’ll sure be sayin’ I’m puttin’ on airs.” “Oh, you’ll soon get used to them,” laughed Paul. “I feel kind of stuck up myself, getting into civilized clothes again.” “And, Paul,” continued Dan, “I feels wonderful rich with all th’ money I’m gettin’. Dad and me hunted all of last winter, an’ all Dad gets for his catch is a hundred an’ twenty dollars in trade, an’ he thinks he does rare well. Now I been gettin’ five hundred an’ sixty in cash!” “We did do pretty well, didn’t we, Dan? And do you know, it’s the first money I ever earned in my life. I’ve always just loafed and let my father give me everything. It makes me ashamed now to think of the way I’ve wasted money I never earned. I’ll never do so again.” Paul and Dan occupied a large room, with two beds, Amesbury a single room, and between the two rooms was a bath room which they used in common, doors from the sleeping rooms opening into the bath room from opposite sides. These doors were left open when they retired at night. All seemed unreal after the long camp life. The boys, weary with the day’s excitement, fell asleep the moment their heads touched the pillows. When they awoke the sun was streaming through the windows. Amesbury, taking his morning ablutions, was splashing in the bath-tub, and singing: “‘There was a fat man of Bombay, Who was smoking one sunshiny day; When a bird called a snipe, Flew away with his pipe, Which vex’d the fat man of Bombay.’” The lads sprang out of bed. “My, but it’s late,” exclaimed Paul. “The sun’s up.” “’Tis that,” said Dan. “I weren’t knowin’ just where I were when I wakes.” “Good morning, fellows,” called Amesbury from the bath room. “Come along one of you; I’m through.” “Good morning!” they both called back. “Hurrah!” shouted Paul. “Today we start for home!” “And you’re going to leave a mighty lonely fellow behind,” said Amesbury. “I’ll have to break myself in all over again. I’ve a notion I’ll kidnap you both and take you back to the bush with me.” “Can’t you come with us?” plead Paul. “Change your mind about it, and come. Your sister would give the world to see you again, I’m sure. We do want you. It will be a jolly trip if you come.” A shadow passed over Amesbury’s face, and left it again--as on the evening when he told them his life story--haggard, old, and as one suffering inexpressible pain. He was dressing now. He made no answer for several minutes, and seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he spoke: