glance, and promptly took the books and strapped them to the frame of his own wheel.
"The latchstring will always be out for you fellows," the Butterfly Man said, and added, ruefully, that the grub would usually be a mess. "I've eaten so many burned meals," he confided, "that sometimes I feel that inside I must look like a piece of charcoal."
Dolf accepted this in silence.
"I'll take good care of the books," Bill called.
"Take care of yourself," Tom Woods answered.
Out of earshot of the cabin Dolf spoke. "What's the idea of the books? Trying to make up to him by playing wise?"
Bill shook his head. "No. I've done a lot of thinking since . . . I guess there wouldn't be much future for me in my father's store. I'd make a fine clerk in a rush, wouldn't I, stumping about on one leg? Whatever kind of living I make I've got to make it with my brain."
Dolf broke into a derisive giggle.
"Oh, I guess there's room in me for some brains," Bill said placidly. "I'm not all stomach."
All the way back to Springham Dolf rode in advance of the others and spoke not a word, a picture of fat dignity nursing outraged feelings.
Bert was late for supper again. His mother knew where he had gone and had not worried, but
