of a valid excuse. "You come over that fence an' I'll slice you!" roared Bishop, taking a step forward. "Things have come to a fine pass in this country if an honest farmer can't take his milk to town without riskin' bein' murdered by plutocrats with 'sliced balls' and all that blankety-blank tommyrot. Climb over on this side of the fence an' I'll lick seven kinds of stuffin' out of you in erbout a minute." "Keep your shirt on!" retorted Harding, "you won't lick nobody." He looked curiously at the maddened farmer. "Your name is Bishop, isn't it?" he asked, and I wondered how he happened to know. "Yes, my name's Bishop," was the sullen and defiant answer. "Jim Bishop?" "Yes; Jim Bishop." Harding grinned good-naturedly. "Don't you know who I am?" he asked. "No, I don't, and I don't give a damn!" replied Bishop, looking at him more closely, I thought. "Did you know a young fellow named Harding when you were a boy?" asked Harding. "Bob Harding?" "Yes, Bob Harding!" "Do you mean to tell me that you're the Bob Harding who uster live on a farm near Buckfield, Maine?" asked Bishop, the anger dying from his voice. "That's what I am!" declared the millionaire, as Bishop came toward him, a curious smile on his tanned face. "How are you, Jim?" "Well; I'll be jiggered! How are you, Bob?" and they shook hands across the fence. For a moment neither spoke. "It's thirty years or more since I've seen you," said Harding. "When did you move to this country?" "Over twenty-five years ago," said Bishop. "And what have you been doing with yourself all these years? I surely hope you've found something