ic and
awful became his effusions, and so we repeat, the poor typewriter! It
had brought about its own terrible punishment.

The summer passed, bringing its crops again, and another batch of pigs.
A mare and a cow added to the animal creation, too. Old man Henty sent
out a reaper and commanded his son to grow hay the following year
instead of buying it from the Okanagan Valley. The boys built another
out-house, bought some calves, and kept adding to their effects. The
calves gave Evan copy for some humorous stories, several of which were
good enough to be rejected by an Eastern magazine. The young "writer"
thought the "not available" slip had been written especially for him,
and its wording flattered him to further submissions.

The second winter was almost a repetition of the first--for Henty; but
not for his companion. They made a trip to Vancouver at Christmas and
sent bundles of presents home. A. P. loaded up with novels, and, to
Evan's consternation, bought a guitar. But he learned to strum it,
although it took him all winter.

Henty was a marvel in his way. Nelson put him in many a sketch and
story. Not once during the long months had the Banfield ex-junior
acted the part of a weakling. Evan reflected that it was easy enough
for himself to keep within bounds, speaking after the manner of
Physical Culture, being mentally engaged all the time; but Henty seemed
to contain himself by force of will. His virility made a man of him
instead of being a snare to him. Evan conceived a hope, founded on the
respect he had for his companion, that was some day going to be
realized.

A. P. took increased interest in the writings of his friend.

"Evan," he said, one day, in his sudden way, "I should think that a
fellow with your habit of writing would tell the story a certain
ex-bankclerk has to tell about the bank."

"By Jove!" exclaimed Evan.

He went right to work on a long bank story. He wrote it over and over,
and submitted it over and over, but it did not meet with success. One
editor told him it was too lurid; another said it was immature. Henty
swore it was the best thing he had ever seen. Is it not unfortunate
that our manuscripts cannot be finally edited by someone who can
_appreciate_ us? Gods of Literature! what a bunch of stuff would be
printed. Typewriter companies would do away with the instalment plan
entirely.

Between seeding and haying the third spring, the boys built a bungalow,
en