newspaper, his mother mended stockings, his little brother pored frowningly over his algebra.  Presently Jack’s nerves seemed to break.  He sprang up impetuously, then, controlling himself, sat down again, and said:  “Oh, it is brutal, this sitting around!  I don’t believe I can stand it much longer.  I wish I were out in the wilds, or on the sea, or somewhere where I could work with my hands, if I mustn’t use my eyes.”

His mother looked up, saying, sympathetically, that it was hard.  His father put down the paper, looked at him quizzically for a moment, then, extracting a letter from his pocket, and laying it on the table, said: 

“John, did you ever know that your father was a stupid old numskull?  Here’s news that I have had for three days, and I never thought of you in connection with it.  Here’s the chance of your life—­the very thing you want—­a letter from your Uncle Matt.  He’s going up North, to the end of civilization.  Started at his old business of fur-trading again.  He says here”—­and Mr. Cornwall referred to the letter, reading—­“’But there’s something else taking me north besides otter and mink skins.  I’ll tell it to you when I return, but just now the secret must be mine alone.  I only wish I had some decent chap to go with me; but in this chasing-for-the-dollar age, no one seems to be able to leave their miserable little shops for mere adventures into the wilds.  I suppose I’ll have to hunt up some strapping boy as a partner, but the trouble is to get one who is strong enough to work and starve alternately; one who will sleep in the open, live on rabbits and beans, let his clothes dry on him when they get wet, and who will keep his mouth shut and his ears open.  They aren’t making young men like that now, I’m afraid.’”

“Yes, they are, father!  Yes, they are!” cried Jack, springing to his feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement.  “Do you think Uncle Matt will take me?”

His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye.  “You certainly have great shoulders, my son.  Why, I never really noticed them before.  You’re built like an ox!  How old are you?”

“Seventeen next month, and I’m not only built like an ox, I’m as strong as one, and—­I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open.”

“Yes, you can do that if you are your mother’s son,” said his father, glancing slyly at his mother.  Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard everything but who repeated nothing.

That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following day, came the reply: 

“Sure!  Will take Jack gladly.  Expect me Saturday.  Be ready to start Tuesday.  Matt.”