“‘Then it’s you I have to thank for making my sister’s child into such a fine, manly lad, as I can see at one glance that he is,’ the stranger exclaimed. ‘I won’t take him away from ye, entirely, Jock Henderson, that I will not. He shall go to the city for his schooling, but it’s only ten miles away, and every weekend he can come riding back to visit ye. How would that do, my lad?’
“But it was Jock Henderson who answered. ‘That will be a first-rate plan, Kid,’ he said. ‘I’ve been wanting you to get an education, and all the week I’ll be waiting for Saturday to come, and so will Little Bear here. He’ll be as lonesome as I’ll be, won’t ye, Little Bear?’ Jock asked, trying to be cheerful-like.
“And that is what happened. The next day the Kid rode away on his own small horse, which had been his gift one Christmas from all the men. Lightning, the Kid called him, on account of his speed, and he loved him next to Little Bear.
“That was five year ago, and now every Saturday, as sure as the day dawns, the Kid comes riding down to Little Bear Lake toward evening, to spend Sunday with old Jock Henderson.
“The lumber-camp was moved north the year after the Kid left, and all the men went away except Jock Henderson. He had saved enough money to live on, and there was plenty of fish and game, and so he built him a little shack up the lake shore and he and Little Bear settled down to keep house together. Then the inn was built over where the lumber-camp had been, and summer people began coming. They all loved Little Bear, and many a sweetmeat he got there, but one day he ate poison, it seemed like. He moped about all day Saturday, and when the Kid came, Little Bear dragged over to him and put his head against the boy, and so he died. The Kid cried just like a child, and no wonder, for Little Bear had been his only playmate, just as Jock Henderson had been his only father.”
“Where is Jock Henderson now?” Madge asked, with tears in her eyes.
“He’s telling the story to ye,” the old man said simply.
“I thought so,” Madge replied.
Then the old man continued, “The Kid’s right name is Eric Brownley. He’s fifteen years old now and preparin’ for college.”
“What!” cried Everett Peterson, springing up. “You don’t mean to tell me that this is the life-story of our Eric Brownley! Why, he’s our champion in all the school-games.”