o a butcher in Littletop? That's where
Fred Larkin's folk live, you know."

"Sell it to a butcher!" exclaimed Ruth, in scorn. "That's what the
farmer would have done--butchered it."

"It is the fate of most sheep to be turned into mutton," returned Tom,
his eyes twinkling.

"And then the mutton is turned into boys and girls," laughed Ruth. "But
if I have my way, this little fellow will never become either a Cameron,
or a Fielding."

"Oh! I wouldn't want to eat him--after seeing him hurt," cried Helen.
"Isn't he cunning? See! he knows we are going to be good to him."

"I hope he knows it," her chum replied. "After all, it doesn't take much
to assure domestic animals of our good intentions toward them."

"Well," said Tom, grinning, "I promise not to eat this lamb, if you make
a point of it, but if I don't get something to eat pretty soon, I assure
you he'll be in grave danger!"

They made Littletop and the Larkins' residence before Tom became too
ravenous, however; and the younger members of the Larkin family welcomed
the adventurers--including the lamb--with enthusiasm.

Fred Larkin had some little aptitude for medicine and surgery--so they
all said, at least--and he set the broken leg and put splints upon it.
Then they put the little creature in one of the calf pens, fed it
liberally, and Fred declared that in ten days it would be well enough to
hop around.

The little Larkin folk were delighted with the lamb for a pet, so Ruth
knew that she could safely trust her protege to them.

There was great fun that night, for the neighboring young folk were
invited to meet the trio from Cheslow and the Red Mill, and it was
midnight before the girls and boys were still. Therefore, there was no
early start made for the second day's run.

Breakfast was late, and it was half-past nine before Tom started the
car, and they left Littletop amid the cheers and good wishes of their
friends.

"We must hustle, if we want to get to Uncle Ike's before dark," Tom
declared. "So you will have to stand for some scorching, girls."

"See that you don't kill anything--or even maim it," advised his sister.
"You are out four dollars for damages already."

"Never you mind. I reckon you girls won't care to be marooned along some
of these wild roads all night."

"Nor to travel over them by night, either," advised Ruth. "My! we
haven't seen a house for ten miles."

"It's somewhere up this way that those Gypsy friends of Roberto are
en