"Sime, is that you? Don't say a word, Sime—I can't."
It was some little time before either of them could say much, but they had both learned just about how far they could swim; and old Purdy sat there in his stolen boat, his rough face all one redness and radiance. All even he could find to say was,
"Ain't I glad! Jim Burr won't mind my bustin' of his lock a mite; but I'll git him another."
GOING TO MAKE AN AFTERNOON CALL.
SWINGING ON THE GATE.—Drawn by S. G. McCutcheon.