"Yes, they are, father! Yes, they are!" cried Jack, springing to his
feet, his eyes gleaming with excitement. "Do you think Uncle Matt will
take me?"

His father measured him carefully with a very keen eye. "You certainly
have great shoulders, my son. Why, I never really noticed them before.
You're built like an ox! How old are you?"

"Seventeen next month, and I'm not only built like an ox, I'm as strong
as one, and--I think I can keep my mouth shut and my ears open."

"Yes, you can do that if you are your mother's son," said his father,
glancing slyly at his mother. Then they all laughed, for Mrs. Cornwall
was renowned among her relatives as a silent little woman, who heard
everything but who repeated nothing.

That night a telegram was sent to Uncle Matt, and, late the following
day, came the reply:

"Sure! Will take Jack gladly. Expect me Saturday. Be ready to start
Tuesday. MATT."

When Matt Larson arrived he was not at all what Jack expected he would
be. In the first place, he was not like one's uncle. Jack had forgotten
that his mother had frequently told him that her little brother Matt was
only six years old when she was married, and had acted "page" at the
wedding. So to-day Matt, who was only twenty-five, looked more like a
big brother than an uncle. His eyes, however, were as shrewd as those of
a man of forty, and already a fine dusting of grey hairs swept away from
each temple. His skin was swarthy from many winds and suns, his nose