at's the sickest-looking cornfield I ever saw!"

We got out, and found a sorry prospect. The corn was poor and
scattering and choked with weeds.

"And the worst of it," called Jack, as he waded out into the
weeds, "is that it has been harvested about twelve times already.
The scoundrel has been selling it to every man that came along
for a month, and I don't believe there were three sackfuls in the
whole field to start with."

We went to work at it, and found that he was not far from
right.

"No wonder the old skeesicks went off to town soon as he got
his money," I said. "He won't show himself back here till he is
sure we have gone."

We worked for an hour, and managed to fill one bag with
"nubbins," and gave up, promising ourselves that we wouldn't be
imposed upon in that way again.

We reached Chadron in due time, and went into camp a little
way beyond, on the banks of the White River, a stream which flows
through Dakota and finally joins the Missouri. Our camp was on a
little flat where the river bends around in the shape of a
horseshoe. It seemed to be a popular stopping-place, and there
were half a dozen other covered wagons in camp there. The number
of empty tin cans scattered about on that piece of ground must
have run up into the thousands. But there had not been a mile of
the road since we left Valentine which had not had from a dozen
to several hundred cans scattered along it, left by former
"movers." We had contributed our share, including the gooseberry
can. From the labels we noticed on the can windrow along the road
it seemed that peaches and Boston baked beans were the favorite
things consumed by the overland travellers, though there were a
great many green-corn, tomato, and salmon cans.

"You can get every article of food in tin cans now," observed
Jack one day, "except my pancakes. I'm going to start a pancake
cannery. I'll label my cans 'Jack's Celebrated Rattletrap
Pancakes--Warranted Free from Injurious Substances. Open this
end. Soak two weeks before using.'"

It was a pretty camping-place on the little can-covered fiat,
and we sat up late, visiting with our neighbors and talking about
the Black Hills.

"I think," said Jack, as we stumbled over the cans on our way
to the Rattletrap, "that I'll go into the mining business up
there myself. I'll just back the Blacksmith's Pet up to the side
of a mountain, tickle his heels with a straw, and he'll have a
gold-mine kicked out i