thing he had ever heard of. He got the widow another place."
"Well, we have got to do something, that is certain," said Dave. "For the present I am going to pick all the huckleberries I can for Mr. Jackson. That will give us a little money to fall back on."
"And I'l help you, Dave. I can't pick many, I know; but every little helps, they say." And a moment later the conversation came to an end and each of the lads began to gather the berries, which grew in scattered patches all over the mountain.
Dave Porter was a youth of fifteen, of medium size, with dark eyes and curly dark hair. He was healthy, with muscles hardened by constant work in the open air. His look was both fearless and frank, and there was an expression about his mouth which spoke of a will power bound to assert itself whenever needed.
Dave was a poorhouse boy, and of unknown parentage. About twelve years before this story opens he had been found, one summer evening, wandering near the railroad tracks just outside of the village of Crumville. Some farm hands had discovered him, sitting on a fallen tree, calling for "the bad train to come back!" From the little fellow the farm hands had gathered that the train had stopped, and he had been put off by "a bad, bad man, who wouldn't buy the candy after all!" The waif was tired and hungry, and was taken to
