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 said, and in his voice was that which shows a man proud of his work.

Bert saw before him a cozy cabin built compactly of logs, and joined to it a florist's house of glass. But it was not alone the flowers and the shrubs under that glass that had drawn the cry from him. The glass house seemed full of butterflies, thousands of them, fluttering on graceful, gaudy, iridescent wings, a fairyland of rainbow colors in motion.

The Butterfly Man threw open the door of the cabin, and they entered. A massive stone fireplace was at one end, bookshelves stretched along a wall, and wide, roomy chairs, thrown around in a sort of orderly confusion, invited rest and serene contemplation. A center table was littered with pipes, papers, matches and ashes. Between two windows stood a small work bench, and around this stood case after case of mounted insects, their wings spread, looking for all the world as though they would come to life in a moment, break away from the pins that held them, and waft themselves about the room.

Bert wanted to linger at those cases. But Tom Woods took a handful of wrenches from the work bench, came outdoors again, and sat on the doorstep with his back against the sill. He seemed to know exactly what to do as he began to bend the handlebar back into shape. The angle was a difficult one, and half a dozen times one of the