knowed his ma," said Jim, as he took up his rifle and started in earnest
for his home.

As he plodded along his way, he thought over all the experiences of the
morning.

"Any man," said he to himself, "who can string things together in the
way Benedict did this mornin' can be cured. Startin' in hell, he was all
right, an' everything reasomble. The startin' is the principal p'int,
an' if I can git 'im to start from Number Nine, I'll fetch 'im round. He
never was so much to home as he was in the woods, an' when I git 'im
thar, and git 'im fishin' and huntin', and sleepin' on hemlock, an'
eatin' venison and corn-dodgers, it'll come to 'im that he's been there
afore, and he'll look round to find Abram, an' he won't see 'im, and his
craze 'll kind o' leak out of 'im afore he knows it."

Jim's theory was his own, but it would be difficult for Dr. Radcliffe,
and all his fellow-devotees of science, to controvert it. It contented
him, at least; and full of plans and hopes, stimulated by the thought
that he had a job on hand that would not only occupy his thoughts, but
give exercise to the benevolent impulses of his heart, he pressed on,
the miles disappearing behind him and shortening before, as if the
ground had been charmed.

He stopped at noon at a settler's lonely house, occupied by Mike Conlin,
a friendly Irishman. Jim took the man aside and related his plans. Mike
entered at once upon the project with interest and sympathy, and Jim
knew that he could trust him wholly. It was arranged that Jim should
return to Mike the evening before the proposed descent upon Tom Buffum's
establishment, and sleep. The following evening Mike's horse would be