He felt very rich and a little nervous with a hundred dollars or more in his possession. But it was not for that reason that he carried his rifle on the day he started for home. He carried it because it was his most treasured possession, excepting his hundred dollars. He told his aunt and uncle, and he told himself, that he carried it because it could not easily be put in his trunk except by jamming it in cornerwise. But the main reason he carried it was because he loved it and he just wanted to have it with him. He might have caught a train on the branch line at Dawson’s which was the nearest station to his uncle’s farm. He would then have to change to the main line at Chandler. He decided to send his trunk from Dawson’s and to hike through the woods to Chandler some three or four miles distant. His aunt and uncle and Ira, the farm hand, stood on the old-fashioned porch to bid him good-by. And in that moment of parting, Aunt Mira was struck with a thought which may perhaps appeal to you who have read of Westy and have a certain slight acquaintance with him. It was the thought of how she had enjoyed his helpful visit and how she would miss him now that he was going. Pee-wee Harris, with all his startling originality, would have wearied her perhaps. Two weeks of Roy Blakeley’s continuous nonsense would have been enough for this quiet old lady. There was nothing in particular about Westy; he was just a wholesome, well-balanced boy. She had not wearied of him. The scouts of his troop never wearied of him—and never made a hero of him. He was just Westy. But there was a gaping void at Temple Camp that summer because he was not there. And there was going to be a gaping void in this quiet household on the farm after he had gone away. That was always the way it was with Westy, he never witnessed his own triumphs because his triumphs occurred in his absence. He was sadly missed, but how could he see this? He looked natty enough in his negligee khaki attire with his rifle slung over his shoulder. “We’re jes going to miss you a right good lot,” said his aunt with affectionate vehemence, “and don’t forget you’re going to come up and see us in the winter.” “I want to,” said Westy. Ira, the farm hand, was seated on the carriage step smoking an atrocious pipe which he removed from his mouth long enough to bid Westy good-by in his humorous drawling way. The two had been great friends. “I reckon you’d like to get a bead on a nice, big, hissin’ wildcat with that gol blamed toy, wouldn’ yer now, huh?” “You go ’long with you,” said Aunt Mira, “he wouldn’ nothing of the kind.” Westy smiled good-naturedly.