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 The boy did not lift his head.

"Bert!" His mother's hand was on—his shoulder. "Are you sore about him being there?"

"No," he said after a moment; "I'm not sore about that. But all this praise he gets. . . . It looks as though dad was just saying things to get a crack in at me. That did get me riled. I made up my mind I wouldn't go near this fellow."

"Same old mule," said his mother, but she said it in a tone that took the sting from her words. "There's two sides to this. Look at it straight, Bert. Your father has every reason to think you're playing dog in the manger. You'd think the same thing if you were in his place. You ought to go down and get acquainted with Sam if only to show that you're fair and above board."

The boy shifted his ground. "Father hasn't any right to say things about the Butterfly Man when he doesn't know. . . ."

"Come, come; no steering up side roads. You ought to go to the store. Show your father that you're too big a chap to be small."

"All right," Bert said suddenly; "I'll go. But," he added positively, "I won't like him."

Three mornings later he awoke to find Springham soaking in a steady, persistent downpour of rain. Mr. Quinby, looking out the parlor window at the gray and dismal sky, decided that there would be little business that day and that he might as well run in to the city and see what the jobbers