shook his head. The problem was too deep for him. He was content to accept the situation as it stood.
Five minutes later the Butterfly Man was on his way back to the cabin, and Bert and his father went on to the store. Mr. Quinby telephoned home the result of the trial. He was at the instrument a long time, and when he came away he was humming under his breath. It was a long time since Bert had heard him sing to himself.
"You know," he said, "I'm hungry. I didn't have any supper to-night."
The mention of food made Bert conscious of an internal hollow. "Gosh! I haven't eaten since morning."
"You haven't? Why. . . . Oh! Too worried to eat. Wait around a few minutes. I haven't been in here much this afternoon; I want to see how things have been running. We'll go up the street to the chop house and have a bite . . . sort of party all our own."
The boy walked down toward the front of the store. Bill Harrison's face was pressed against the window, and the hand not needed for the crutch waved a frantic summons. Bert hurried out to him.
"It was all right, wasn't it," Bill asked, "to send for Tom Woods?"
"It was the best thing that ever happened," Bert told him. "I don't know what would have
