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A glance showed Lon that Sam was flying storm signals. Out of the corner of an eye he watched the boy, who had dropped upon a bench near the little stove. A full minute passed before either spoke.

“Well?” Lon drawled, finally.

Sam made no reply, but stared industriously at his shoes.

Lon went on with his work—he was repairing a harness. He fitted a new buckle in place of an old one; tested it; glanced again at his young friend.

“I dunno, Sam, but you’d feel better if you got it out of your system,” he remarked leisurely.

No response from the youth on the bench.

Lon continued his task for a time. Then he began to whistle. Sam stirred uneasily.

“What’s the matter? Out o’ tune, am I?” Lon inquired.

“Way out!” snapped the boy.

Then Lon laughed. “Ha, ha! Must ’a’ ketched it off you, son. What’s the trouble, anyhow?”

“Noth—nothing.”

“All right—tell me about it.”

Sam raised his head. “Oh, it’s nothing—nothing to talk about, that is.”

“Well,” said Lon meditatively, “it pays to experiment now and then. You never can tell ’bout some things. And there is sort of a relief, somehow, in usin’ the human voice—kinder safety-valve effect. And it looks to me as if you’d been bottlin’ up steam long enough.... T’other boys been rilin’ you, did you say?”