over his family that he did not read the signs, and so rushed into his misfortunes blindly.  These, however, are idle speculations; they are the materials from which sages spin their dry and ethereal webs.  But this narrative is concerned only with the facts in the case.  Therefore it is necessary to know only that when Jimmy Sears stooped to pick up his nail-pointed arrow, lying beside a stunned pullet, he heard the sharp nasal “sping” of a rock whirring near his head.  Chicken and bow and arrow in hand, he began to run, not looking back.

“Here, here, Jimmy Sears, hold on there!” cried a voice.  Jimmy knew the voice.  It and the chicken belonged to the same person.  So Jimmy quickened his speed.  He heard the clattering thump of pursuing feet.  It was two hundred yards to the end of the cob-strewn cow lot.  The boy fixed his course toward the lowest length of fence.  Then he kept his eyes upon the ground.  He clenched his teeth and skimmed over the earth.  The feathers in his hat—­stuck there to satisfy the verities of his assumed Indian character—­caught the breeze; so, rather than lose his hat, he grabbed it in the hand that held the chicken.  He cleared the fence and plunged into the timber.  Looking over his shoulder, he saw a man’s form on the top of the fence; the thud of boots on the sod and the crash of branches behind him sent terror through the boy’s frame, and he turned towards the creek that flowed sluggishly near by.  He took great bounding strides, throwing his head from side to side as he ran.  The boy knew the path.  It led to a rickety fence—­a cattle guard—­across the river.  Jimmy’s heart beat wildly, and the trees danced by him on the sloping path.  But he was not “the champeen fence-walker of Willow Creek,” late of “Pennington & Carpenter’s Circus & Menagerie, price ten pins,” without having won his proud place by prowess.  He came to the water’s edge with sure feet.  He knew that he could cross.  He had crossed the creek there a score of times.  He jumped for the slanting boards with his bare feet, and his heart was glad.  The boy was sure that no man would dare to follow him, even if the fence would hold a man’s weight.  He had scurried up the bank before his pursuer had reached the side Jimmy had leaped from so lightly.  He scooted through the underbrush.  Again and again did the “champeen fence-walker” smile to himself as he slackened his pace to dodge a volley of rocks, and again and again did James Sears—­an exemplary youth for the most part, who knew his Ten Commandments by heart—­look exultingly at his pullet.  He gloried in his iniquity.  Lentulus returning to Capua with victorious legions was not so proud.  But there the evil spirit swooped low upon him—­the spirit of destruction that always follows pride.  Jimmy tripped, and lunged forward; the chicken, the hat, the bow and arrow, and the boy all parted company.  Then Jimmy felt a pain—­a sharp pain that he recognized too well.  He feared to make sure of the extent