It was not very long before the “Animal Rescue Club” of North Street became known far and wide, and its influence began to be felt in all quarters.  The unfeeling drayman whose act of cruelty first gave rise to the organization was watched, then reported to police headquarters, from where he received a sound lecture because of various other ill-treatments of his horse, and after a time he began to see his own unkindness through the same spectacles as the “Animal Rescuers” viewed it, and within two months he became a considerate, gentle driver.

“If the club never does another thing but reform that one man, and make him kinder to that big, good-hearted horse of his, it has been organized for some purpose,” commented Mr. Benson, one evening, when he “dropped in” to one of the meetings.  “Keep it up, fellows.  Our little four-footed animals serve us well, and deserve consideration in return.”  And the boys worked hard and faithfully to follow his advice.  Homeless cats, stray, mangy dogs, ill-fed horses, neglected cows, street sparrows, pigeons, bluejays, were watched and protected and relieved of their sufferings all that winter through.  Finally Benson’s father arranged his evenings so that he could spend an hour with the club at each meeting, which time he devoted to “lecturing” on the habits and haunts of animals and birds.  Those lectures were the delight of all, for this happy-hearted, boyish man would, in some marvellous fashion, discover all the humorous habits and comical dispositions and actions of every living thing.  The little wiry-haired Irish terrier was a comedian, he declared.  The bull-moose was a tragedian, the black bear cub was a clown, the lynx a villain, and the migrating birds a sweet, invisible chorus.  Then to each and all he would attach some fascinating story, explaining why they resembled these characters.  Often the entire club would be roaring with laughter over animal antics and bird capers, then the young faces would be very serious the next minute over some pathetic, heartbreaking tale of hunted deer-mothers trying to protect their pretty fawns, or some father fox lying dead because a swift bullet had caught him as he raided the poultry yard in the endeavor to seize food for the pretty litter of sharp-nosed little cubs, curled up with their mother in a distant cave.

So the boys listened and learned and laughed, and, as spring crept up the calendar, their only regret at the return of the ball season was that the club meetings would be over until next autumn.

* * * * * * * *

It was late in April when little Jimmy Duffy’s father was called to Buffalo on business.  The night before leaving, he said:  “It’s most annoying!  Here I have to go all that way for just about one hour’s talk with a man; an entire day wasted for the sake of one hour, or—­hold on, let’s see, Jimmy.  You have never seen Niagara Falls, have you?”

“No, dad,” answered Jimmy, his face eager with hope.