“The fish are smaller there and I guess you could catch ’em,” said he.

The invitation filled me with joy and we set out together through the thick woods.  The leaves were just come and their vivid, glossy green sprinkled out in the foliage of the little beeches and the woods smelt of new things.  The trail was overgrown and great trees had fallen into it and we had to pick our way around them.  The Comptroller carried me on his back over the wet places and we found the brook at last and he baited my hook while I caught our basket nearly full of little trout.  Coming back we lost the trail and presently the Comptroller stopped and said: 

“Bart, I’m ’fraid we’re going wrong.  Let’s sit down here and take a look at the compass.”

He took out his compass and I stood by his knee and watched the quivering needle.

“Yes, sir,” he went on.  “We just turned around up there on the hill and started for Alder Brook again.”

As we went on he added:  “When you’re in doubt look at the compass.  It always knows its way.”

“How does it know?” I asked.

“It couldn’t tell ye how and I couldn’t.  There are lots o’ things in the world that nobody can understand.”

The needle now pointed toward its favorite star.

“My uncle says that everything and everybody has compasses in ’em to show ’em the way to go,” I remarked thoughtfully.

“He’s right,” said the Comptroller.  “I’m glad you told me for I’d never thought of it.  Every man has a compass in his heart to tell which way is right.  I shall always remember that, partner.”

He gave me a little hug as we sat together and I wondered what a partner might be, for the word was new to me.

“What’s partner?” I asked.

“Somebody you like to have with you.”

Always when we were together after that hour the great man called me “partner.”

We neared camp in the last light of the day.  Mr. Wright stopped to clean our fish at a little murmuring brook and I ran on ahead for I could hear the crackling of the camp-fire and the voice of Bill Seaver.  I thought in whispers what I should say to my Uncle Peabody and they were brave words.  I was close upon the rear of the camp when I checked my eager pace and approached on tiptoe.  I was going to surprise and frighten my uncle and then embrace him.  Suddenly my heart stood still, for I heard him saying words fit only for the tongue of a Dug Draper or a Charley Boyce—­the meanest boy in school—­low, wicked words which Uncle Peabody himself had taught me to fear and despise.  My Uncle Peabody!  Once I heard a man telling of a doomful hour in which his fortune won by years of hard work, broke and vanished like a bubble.  The dismay he spoke of reminded me of my own that day.  My Aunt Deel had told me that the devil used bad words to tempt his victims into a lake of fire where they sizzled and smoked and yelled forever and felt worse, every minute, than