poor Tom. “I don’t suppose I should have brought her up here at all,” Ferris said. “But you see we’re all alone and she had the flu bad last winter and I thought the mountain air would do her good. Well, here we are.”

They had reached a part of the woods where the path encountered a brook and it was here that Ferris wished to build a rough bridge which would be at once a convenience to strollers and a thing of some rustic beauty. The other two were not waiting here.

“We could lay planks, I suppose,” Ferris said, “but I thought a sort of natural wood affair would be better, with a kind of a roof you know, and maybe a couple of seats; what you might call an arbor. It was the kid’s idea. Be more in harmony, hey?”

“Sure thing,” said Tom.

The word harmony had scarcely escaped Ferris’ lips when there appeared in the path some few yards off such a masterpiece of harmonious effect as to cause Tom to pause, in speechless wonder.

Approaching he beheld the gracious and pliant form of Mr. Fairgreaves wearing an expansive smile of greeting upon his romantic countenance. He wore his khaki trousers and flannel shirt, set off by his black cutaway, and over his shoulder he carried an axe. No pioneer of old could ever have carried an axe with such an air.

But the axe was not the feature of this sartorial medley. For upon the wavy hair of Mr. Royce Fairgreaves was a derby hat, the sight of which caused even sober Tom to struggle frantically to suppress unholy mirth. But yet it was not this derby of the woodland that was the headliner in Mr. Fairgreaves’ all star cast of apparel. Rather was it the air of Mr. Fairgreaves which cannot be described.

Mr. Fairgreaves appeared with a smile, an axe and a derby hat.

Behind him came the ex-soldier, also shouldering an axe. He wore a threadbare doughboy’s suit and a large brimmed slouch hat. He seemed to have a certain humorous appreciation of his companion, yet Tom could not have said exactly how. He was silent and sober, simply nodding a greeting as he approached.

“The top of the morning to you,” said Mr. Fairgreaves in his melodious, rolling voice. “We come most faithfully upon the hour.”

“Sleep all right?” Whalen asked Tom in a weary sort of way, which somehow bespoke real interest.

“Fine,” said Tom.

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