on Sunday, and this steady rain would enable him to make friends with
Bud. I do not know how he got started, but after breakfast he began to
tell stories. Out of all the books he had ever read he told story after
story. And "old man Means," and "old _Miss_ Means," and Bud Means, and
Bill Means, and Sis Means listened with great eyes while he told of
Sinbad's adventures, of the Old Man of the Sea, of Robinson Crusoe, of
Captain Gulliver's experiences in Liliput, and of Baron Munchausen's
exploits.

Ralph had caught his fish. The hungry minds of these backwoods people
were refreshed with the new life that came to their imaginations in
these stories. For there was but one book in the Means library, and
that, a well-thumbed copy of "Captain Riley's Narrative," had long since
lost all freshness.

"I'll be dog-on'd[9]," said Bill, emphatically, "ef I hadn't 'ruther
hear the master tell them whoppin' yarns than to go to a circus the best
day I ever seed!" Bill could pay no higher compliment.

What Ralph wanted was to make a friend of Bud. It's a nice thing to
have the seventy-four-gun ship on your own side, and the more Hartsook
admired the knotted muscles of Bud Means the more he desired to attach
him to himself. So, whenever he struck out a peculiarly brilliant
passage, he anxiously watched Bud's eye. But the young Philistine kept
his own counsel. He listened, but said nothing, and the eyes under his
shaggy brows gave no sign. Ralph could not tell whether those eyes were
deep and inscrutable or only stolid. Perhaps a little of both. When
Monday morning came, Ralph was nervous. He walked to school with Bud.

"I guess you're a little skeered by what the old man said, a'n't you?"