the shed was quite as
good as anything I had a right to expect, while Patch's presence proved
the greatest comfort. He lay down close beside me, artfully taking
advantage of the straw, and when I felt very lonely--for I could not get
to sleep for some time--I put out a hand and felt his coat.

(_Continued on page 106._)

[Illustration: "'You can have a shake-down here,' said the farmer."]

[Illustration: "'The question is, where did you get the dog?'"]

THE BOY TRAMP.

(_Continued from page 103._)

It was half-past six the next morning when I went to the farmer's back
door, where the rough-looking maid provided me with a cup of coffee and
a chunk of bread and butter, then, followed by Patch, I set out that
Thursday morning on the road to Hazleton. The weather could not have
been better, although the middle of the day promised to be excessively
hot.

As I trudged along the pleasant road, I had some wild idea of reaching
Hazleton that evening, but this was soon destroyed, for about a mile
from the farm where we had slept, I noticed that Patch was limping.
Sitting down on a heap of stones by the roadside, I looked at his near
hind paw, and saw that it was nastily cut, so that he could only walk in
great pain. I suppose he had trodden on a piece of glass in the road.

Now I realised that I was in an awkward plight. Of course, Patch must on
no account be left behind; but, on the other hand, how was I to get him
along? Tearing a piece off the edge of the sack, I frayed out some of
the thread and made a kind of bag, which I put over the wounded paw,
tying it round the leg. This took some time, and, as the job was
finished and Patch was licking my hand by way of thanks, I saw a large
van approaching from the direction of the farm, driven by one of the
fattest men I had ever seen. The cart was laden with bottles of
ginger-beer and mineral waters, but, as it passed us by, at a fair pace,
a nosebag, which was tied behind, fell off into the road.

The driver, alone in the van, was entirely unaware of his loss until,
rising from the heap of stones, I shouted to him to stop, and, picking
up the nosebag, ran after the van. Pulling up his horse, he leaned down
to take the bag, and then asked where I was going.

'To Hazleton,' I answered, as usual.

'That is about seventeen miles,' he said.

'The worst of it is,' I continued, 'my dog has cut his foot and can't
walk.'

'Like a lift, doggie?' asked the fat driver.