you this morning that I had the honor of addressing a poet--none other
than the famous author of 'Underbrush.'"

The boy started back, and endeavored to withdraw his arm, but Mr. Hamlin
tightened his hold, without, however, changing his careless expression.

"You see," he continued, "the editor is a friend of mine, and, being
afraid this package might not get into the right hands--as you didn't
give your name--he deputized me to come here and see that it was all
square. As you're rather young, for all you're so gifted, I reckon I'd
better go home with you, and take a receipt from your parents. That's
about square, I think?"

The consternation of the boy was so evident and so far beyond Mr.
Hamlin's expectation that he instantly halted him, gazed into his
shifting eyes, and gave a long whistle.

"Who said it was for ME? Wot you talkin' about? Lemme go!" gasped the
boy, with the short intermittent breath of mingled fear and passion.

"Bob," said Mr. Hamlin, in a singularly colorless voice which was very
rare with him, and an expression quite unlike his own, "what is your
little game?"

The boy looked down in dogged silence.

"Out with it! Who are you playing this on?"

"It's all among my own folks; it's nothin' to YOU," said the boy,
suddenly beginning to struggle violently, as if inspired by this