happened to be comin' along in that 'bus of his, heard the boys
yell. Didn't he hop out o' the wagon as spry as a chimpanzee, skin
over the fence, an' jump into the pond, swim out there an' tow the
boy in! Yes, ma'am, he saved that boy's life then an' no mistake.
That man can read me to sleep with poetry any night he has a mind
to. He's a plumb fine little firecracker, the Perfessor."

Farmer Pratt pulled hard on his pipe. Evidently his friendship for
the wandering bookseller was one of the realities of his life.

"Yes, ma'am," he went on, "that Perfessor has been a good friend to
me, sure enough. We brought him an' the boy back to the house. The
boy had gone down three times an' the Perfessor had to dive to find
him. They were both purty well all in, an' I tell you I was scared.
But we got Dick around somehow--rolled him on a sugar bar'l, an'
poured whiskey in him, an' worked his arms, an' put him in hot
blankets. By and by he come to. An' then I found that the Perfessor,
gettin' over the barb-wire fence so quick (when he lit for the pond)
had torn a hole in his leg you could put four fingers in. There was
his trouser all stiff with blood, an' he not sayin' a thing.
Pluckiest little runt in three States, by Judas! Well, we put _him_
to bed, too, and then the Missus keeled over, an' we put _her_ to
bed. Three of them, by time the Doc got here. Great old summer
afternoon that was! But bless your heart, we couldn't keep the
Perfessor abed long. Next day he was out lookin' fer his poetry
books, an' first thing you know he had us all rounded up an' was
preachin' good literature at us like any evangelist. I guess we all
fell asleep over his poetry, so then he started on readin' that
'Treasure Island' story to us, wasn't it, Mother? By hickory, we
none of us fell asleep over that. He started the kids readin' so