THIS WAS what Tom saw on looking behind him:

A very tall man, bestriding a raw-boned horse, who looked as if, like Dr. Tanner, he had just emerged from a forty days’ fast.

The man was very nearly as thin as the horse, with a long face, set off, but scarcely adorned, by a rough, red beard. He was attired in a suit of rusty black, and looked not unlike a wandering missionary.

“He’s tryin’ to catch up with us, Tom,” said Mr. Brush. “Suppose we halt and give him a better show.”

Tom had no objections. In their lonely journey it was rather agreeable to meet a new acquaintance, however unprepossessing he might appear.

“Good morning, fellow pilgrims,” said the new-comer, as he came up abreast of our two friends.

“Good mornin’ yourself,” said Brush. “What’s the news?”

“Just what I would like to know,” said the other. “I haven’t heard a word from civilization for weeks. Whom have I the honor of addressing?”

“My name is Peter Brush, at your service. This boy is my friend, Tom Thatcher. We are on our way to Californy, and we may get there if we don’t run a-foul164 of any murderous Indians. I ain’t quite ready to part with my scalp yet, so I hope they’ll keep away.”

“It’s very painful, being scalped,” said the new arrival, meditatively.

“I reckon so.”

“I know it. For I had that little operation performed on me.”

Peter Brush drew in his horse, and stared at the stranger in profound surprise.

“What was that you were sayin’?” he ejaculated.

“I’ve been scalped myself, and I know how it seems.”

“Stranger——”

“Lycurgus B. Spooner, M.D. That is my name and title.”

“Then Mr. Spooner—or, Dr. Spooner—won’t you oblige me by removin’ your hat?”

............