Away and away he dashed, up steep ascents, down sharp declivities, falling twice or thrice in his haste, but hurting his clothes more than himself.

It was not long before he was in sight of home, and Towse met him at the fence.  The feeling between these two was often the reverse of cordial, and as Rufe climbed down from rail to rail, his sullen “Lemme ’lone, now!” was answered by sundry snaps at his heels and a low growl.  Not that Towse would really have harmed him—­fealty to the family forbade that; but in defense of his ears and tail he thought it best to keep fierce possibilities in Rufe’s contemplation.

Rufe sat down on the floor of the uninclosed passage between the two rooms, his legs dangling over the sparse sprouts of chickweed and clumps of mullein that grew just beneath, for there were no steps, and Towse bounded up and sat upright close beside him.  And as he sought to lean on Towse, the dog sought to lean on him.

They both looked out meditatively at the dense and sombre wilderness, upon which this little clearing and humble log-cabin were but meagre suggestions of that strong, full-pulsed humanity that has elsewhere subdued nature, and achieved progress, and preempted perfection.

Towse soon shut his eyes, and presently he was nodding.  Presumably he dreamed, for once he roused himself to snap at a fly, when there was no fly.  Rufe, however, was wide awake, and busily canvassing how to account to Birt for the lack of a message from Nate Griggs, for he would not confess how untrustworthy he had proved himself.  As he reflected upon this perplexity, he leaned his throbbing head on his hand, and his attitude expressed a downcast spirit.

This chanced to strike his mother’s attention as she came to the door.  She paused and looked keenly at him.

“Them hoss apples ag’in!” she exclaimed, with the voice of accusation.  She had no idea of youthful dejection disconnected with the colic.

Rufe was roused to defend himself.  “Hain’t teched ’em, now!” he cried, acrimoniously.

“Waal, sometimes ye air sorter loose-jointed in yer jaw, an’ ain’t partic’lar what ye say,” rejoined his mother, politely.  “I’ll waste a leetle yerb-tea on ye, ennyhow.”

She started back into the room, and Rufe rose at once.  This cruelty should not be practiced upon him, whatever might betide him at the tanyard.  He set out at a brisk pace.  He had no mind to be long alone in the woods since his strange adventure down the ravine, or he might have hid in the underbrush, as he had often done, until other matters usurped his mother’s medicinal intentions.

When Rufe reached the tanyard, Birt was still at work.  He turned and looked eagerly at the juvenile ambassador.

“Did Nate gin ye a word fur me?” he called sonorously, above the clamor of the noisy bark-mill.

“He say he’ll be hyar ter-morrer by sun-up!” piped out Rufe, in a blatant treble.