good done.

Then she closed the book with a satisfied feeling. She
was going to have a very full report for her department
at the next Annual Convention of the Society for Propagation
of Lofty Ideals.

In another part of the same Manitoba town lived John
Watson, unregenerate hater of books, his wife and their
family of nine. Their first dwelling when they had come
to Manitoba from the Ottawa Valley, thirteen years ago,
had been C. P. R. box-car No. 722, but this had soon to
be enlarged, which was done by adding to it other car-roofed
shanties. One of these was painted a bright yellow and
was a little larger than the others. It had been the
caboose of a threshing outfit that John had worked for
in '96. John was the fireman and when the boiler blew up
and John was carried home insensible the "boys" felt that
they should do something for the widow and orphans. They
raised one hundred and sixty dollars forthwith, every
man contributing his wages for the last four days. The
owner of the outfit, Sam Motherwell, in a strange fit of
generosity, donated the caboose.

The next fall Sam found that he needed the caboose himself,
and came with his trucks to take it back. He claimed that
he had given it with the understanding that John was
going to die. John had not fulfilled his share of the
contract, and Sam felt that his generosity had been
misplaced.