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“I think the linin’ of Miss Gordon’s cloud needs polishin’ these days,” ventured Betty, shyly. “Smile, Moses, dern yer empty corn-cob face! Smile!” shouted one. CHAPTER XIII THE HIDDEN HUT.

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Notwithstanding Moses’ endeavors to be attractive, Isobel Crump’s voice, as she addressed her brother’s friend was so frigid that her words penetrated his ear like sharply-pointed icicles. “Surely Billy has earned it, Mrs. Bennett,” Mr. Smith urged. “I knew it!” Billy panted feverishly. “The Ha’nt!” Heedless of the dog running with his nose close to the ground, Billy rushed on. His shirt was torn, his trousers hanging by one suspender, his shoes cut and one tap turned back. Ashes whitened his hair; though at the back a dark mat was still damp from oozing blood,—the handkerchief that had bound it had been torn off by a twitching twig. His smarting eyes watered so that he could hardly see his way. Yet of all this he was unconscious. Weariness, pain, his cracked and bleeding lips,—he knew nothing of them, felt nothing. “Here’s Mis’ Mifsud an’ St. Elmo comin’ in the buckboard,” he announced..