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 sat straight up on the bed and suddenly big tears shot one after another across the childish face and a little sharp wail that cut deeper than a knife piped out, “Oh, God ! I wish you didn’t have to suffer so!”

The Bee Master’s chin pointed toward the ceiling. He lifted his right hand and gathered his lower lip into folds and gave it outside pressure to reinforce it.

“Yes, Buddy, I’ve thought about that myself,” he said, “and I’ve sort of wished it, but it seems to be in the divine plan, or through some negligence of mine in taking proper care of the machinery as I’ve come along, and so I have to take the consequences. But don’t you mind.”

“Well, I do mind!” said the little Scout. A hand was jerked backward in the direction of Jamie. “He’s all right. He’s a good scout. He had sense enough to get behind the tree and use what he could find when the Red-skins attacked us. He’s good stuff, a sure fire thing, but he don’t think himself, that he’s you.”

The Bee Master glanced at Jamie and their eyes met and held.

“Take a chair,” he said to Jamie. “Draw up close here. I want to tell you something, but first I want to ask you something.” He looked straight at the Scout Master. “You’re fairly sure,” he said, “that the man I left to keep the bees is the right kind of a man?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” said the Scout Master, promptly. “You couldn’t get him to do a low-down, mean trick to save you!”

“That’s all right then,” said the Bee Master. Then he