northeast. They had a determined, yet pleasantly excited air which interested me, and I went back to make inquiries of the postmaster.

“Where are they going?” I asked.

“Hey?”

“I asked where they were going.”

“Who?”

I inclined my head toward the company on the far horizon. I could not incline it much, for it was heavy, being full of books.

“Oh,” said the postmaster. “Them. Over to Porcupine Hill.”

“Porcupine Hill!” I repeated in astonishment. “Where is it?”

“Follow your nose,” he replied, somewhat brusquely, slamming down the window in a way which indicated that the interview was ended.

My pulses throbbed with new joy, for here, at last, was a diversion. I lost no time in following my nose, first taking the precaution to point that useful organ in a bee-line with the disappearing company. Ultimately I joined them, to their surprise if not their pleasure.

“We’re late,” said one of them. “The show’s just beginning.”

I quickened my steps to a run, and was presently brought up with a round turn against a rope stretched across the foot of the hill. Several strange-looking balls were rolling from the crest toward us, and a man with a note-book was registering bets, all of which, however, were in small coin.

“What is it?” I inquired in a loud, clear voice which commanded instant attention.

“Porcupines,” answered a courteous gentleman in blue overalls, a hickory shirt, and one suspender. “Every afternoon at two, when it ain’t raining, they roll down that there hill.”

“You be n’t a detective, be you?” asked an agitated voice at my elbow. It was the postmaster.

“I am not,” I returned, with freezing dignity.

“All right,” continued the postmaster. “Here, bookie, ten to one on Salina Ann. Salina’s a high roller,” he explained, turning to me, “but she ain’t in this 

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