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THE place Billy called the Fo’castle was a tiny room in the sloping windmill tower. It was level with the second floor of the house, and a narrow, railed bridge connected it with a door in his mother’s room. Under it was the above-ground cellar, overhead the big tank. Still higher whirled the great white wings that pumped the beauty-giving water to lawn and gardens. Several hands waved wildly and a chorus of voices eagerly broke in; through the childish babel could be heard a lisping narrative. Half paralyzed with astonishment Billy went with the Doctor to the Sheriff’s office; but he was out and the deputy didn’t know when he would return; thought it might be within an hour or so. There was nothing to do but wait. Billy’s perplexed, baffled face touched the Doctor. His temples were already gray, but he had not forgotten how a boy feels..

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“The darned old robber!” Billy started up and walked restlessly toward the door. “Jiminy! If they don’t let me work this vacation, I’ll have to run away,” he thought as, through the uncurtained window, he watched the evening star sink below the western hills. While he was wondering if people lived in the star he fell asleep; yet waked later to hear the busy machine. Early on the following afternoon the two boys found their way into front seats in the Sunday-school hall. The address was fairly well under way when the excitement of absorbing so much information in so short a space of time told on Moses’ constitution. His nose began to bleed. With a handkerchief like a small-sized counterpane applied to the offending nasal organ the boy tiptoed squeakily out of the room. Choosing a piece of bright yellow chalk she began to inscribe the golden text on the blackboard. She pressed too hard and the chalk cracked and fell to the floor. Pete Stolway vaulted out of his chair to capture the yellow pencil, but he had the misfortune to step on both the pieces of crayon, crushing them to sand, a heap of yellow grit..