if attached to some deranged mechanism. Without any apparent concern in
these phenomena, Tommy halted, and, seating himself on a log, motioned
his companion to a place beside him. Johnson obeyed without a word.
Slight as was the act, perhaps no other incident of their singular
companionship indicated as completely the dominance of this careless,
half-effeminate, but self-possessed boy over this doggedly self-willed,
abnormally excited man.

"It ain't the square thing," said Johnson, after a pause, with a laugh
that was neither mirthful nor musical, and frightened away a lizard that
had been regarding the pair with breathless suspense,--"it ain't the
square thing for jackass rabbits to wear hats, Tommy,--is it, eh?"

"Well," said Tommy, with unmoved composure, "sometimes they do and
sometimes they don't. Animals are mighty queer." And here Tommy went
off in an animated, but, I regret to say, utterly untruthful and
untrustworthy account of the habits of California fauna, until he was
interrupted by Johnson.

"And snakes, eh, Tommy?" said the man, with an abstracted air, gazing
intently on the ground before him.

"And snakes," said Tommy; "but they don't bite, at least not that kind
you see. There!--don't move, Uncle Ben, don't move; they're gone now.
And it's about time you took your dose."

Johnson had hurriedly risen as if to leap upon the log, but Tommy had
as quickly caught his arm with one hand while he drew a bottle from his
pocket with the other. Johnson paused, and eyed the bottle. "Ef you say
so, my boy," he faltered, as his fingers closed nervously around it; "say