Bill was not very talkative, but Whistle-Breeches enjoyed the affair immensely, and was greatly interested in what Professor Clatter called his “patter.” “We ought to get him to some of our class rackets,” said Donald. “He’d be no end of a lark.” “I guess he doesn’t stay in this part of the country long—nor, in fact anywhere more than a couple of nights,” replied Pete, and, as he spoke he looked beyond the gaudily decorated vehicle of the medicine vendor and caught a glimpse of another wagon drawn alongside the road. It was one with something like a three inch quick-firing gun projecting from the covered top, and Pete whispered to his brothers: “There’s Duodecimo Donaldby’s rig if I’ve got my eyesight left. I wonder if he’s shooting rain-making bombs for a living now, or curing sick horses?” “We’ll soon know,” said Cap. “The professor is nearly through.” The crowd having exhausted the entertaining features of the medicine man’s little effort, and the sale of the remedies and soaps being about at an end, Mr. Clatter announced that he was through for the evening. The people began to disperse, and soon Cap, with his two brothers and Whistle-Breeches were seated inside the snug little wagon, enjoying a cup of tea and some cakes which the professor set before them. “I’m glad you boys came,” he said, as he looked in the tiny teapot to see how much of the beverage remained. “I want to have a talk with you—but hold on, I was almost forgetting an old friend.” He stepped to the window of his vehicle, poked out his head, and gave a call which was at once answered. Presently some one was heard approaching, and, as the door opened the head of the character known to our friends as the “rain-maker,” was thrust inside. “Welcome to the Smith boys!” he called. “Enter!” invited Mr. Clatter. “Yes, come in and talk over old times, Mr. Donaldby,” added Pete. “Hush! Not that name!” exclaimed the weather prophet, with a warning finger laid athwart his lips. “Not that name or by a shattered cirrus-nimbus cloud you’ll have the authorities about my ears!” “How about Mirthrandes Hendershot?” asked Cap. “No—no! Not that! Not that! Spavin, ring bone and blind staggers are things of the past. I dare not undertake to cure any more horses.” “Just what _are_ you doing?” asked Pete, as the former weather prophet entered and took a low stool. “Ah, now we are coming to it,” was the answer with a smile. “In the first place my name—how does Tithonus Somnus strike you?” “An odd combination,” remarked Cap, recalling the one ancient god who was turned into a grasshopper, and the other who symbolized sleep. “Odd, and so much the better,” went on Mr. Somnus. “It typifies my calling.” “Which might be—?” asked Bill suggestively.