The next moment it was being retained in its novel place by Will making fast the line, winding it in and out between two dead branches; and then the boy quietly urged himself back to where Josh was chuckling softly as he peered down. For he was having a good view of that which had been hidden from Will, but which it was his turn now to share; and, judging from his features, he did enjoy it much. But it was only the face and upper portion of a big, muscular, tweed-clothed man, lying back with his hands under his head, eyes closed fast, and mouth wide open, fast asleep. He was a sturdy-looking fellow, with a big brown beard and moustache; but the boys did not stop to look, only began to retrace their steps so as to get down upon a level with the shelf upon which the sleeper lay. "Capital!" whispered Josh. "What will he say?" "Don't know; don't care!" was the reply. "We'd better get away, hadn't we?" "No-o-oo! We must stop. I wouldn't be away on any account." "But then he'll know we did it, and get in a rage." "Pst! Be quiet." Will hurriedly led the way till they reached a clump of bushes where they could squat down with a good view of the sleeper, who remained perfectly still. Josh looked up at the umbrella, which looked as if the oak tree had bloomed out into one huge white flower. Pointing up with one hand, he covered his face with the other to stifle a laugh, and Will uttered a warning. "Hist!" Just at that moment, heard above the murmur of the machinery in the mill, and the wash and splash of the water, there arose the peculiar strident buzz of a large bluebottle, busily on the lookout for a suitable spot on which to lay eggs. Evidently it scented the artist, and began darting to and fro over his open mouth. In an instant there was an angry ejaculation, one hand was set at liberty, and several blows were struck at the obnoxious fly, which, finding the place dangerous, darted off, and the artist went loudly to sleep again. The boys exchanged glances, and Josh stole out one hand, pulled a hart's-tongue fern up by the roots, and, with admirable aim, pitched it so that it fell right on the sleeper's chest. The artist sat up suddenly, staring about him, while the boys crouched perfectly motionless in their hiding-place. "What's that?" reached their ears, and they saw the sleeper feeling about till his hand came in contact with the dry fern root. "Why, it must have been that," he muttered aloud, and he turned it over and over. Josh uttered a faint sound as if he were about to burst out laughing. "It must have come from above, somewhere. If it was those boys--" The artist looked up suspiciously as he spoke, and then, with a start, he turned himself over on his hands and knees, to begin gazing wonderingly up at the cotton blossom hanging from the tree. "Well," he said, "I never felt it; it must have been one of those gusts which come down from the mountain."