really alone when I have my pets out there. I find them good company."
They sat long at the table, for when the meal was done the Butterfly Man lighted his pipe, and leaned back in his chair, and spoke of strange things. A clock on the fireplace mantel eventually told Bert that it was time to start for home. Tom Woods walked with him as far as the road.
"Now that you've found me," he said, "come often, but don't try to kill me."
"I have a couple of friends who'd like to see this," Bert said with a question in his voice.
The man scratched his ear. "Sometimes I'm out of flour, and sometimes it's sugar, and sometimes it's coffee. I'm a bad housekeeper. I feed my butterflies better than I feed myself. How about these chaps—do they like ham and beans?"
"One of them is Dolf Muller. He's always hungry. He'll eat anything."
"Well, that simplifies things. I always manage to have ham and beans. Who's the other chap?"
"Bill Harrison. He's got only one leg."
The man's voice changed. "Handicapped before he's really started. Bring 'em around. If I'm not at home camp on the doorstep until I get back. It's a good doorstep for loafing. I've tried it."
Bert rode back to Springham the bearer of momentous tidings. Suddenly in a world of commonplace events he had found an oasis of enchant-
