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few chunks of wood anywhere around the barn. After Wednesday’s delivery we could pay for a whole ton of coal.”
    It was right then I thought about the railroad. When I had been helping get the cattle out of the railroad cut, Pinto had stumbled over a chunk of coal nearly as big as my head. I knew it must have fallen off a train, and if it had, some more must have fallen off too.
    â€œThere is some more coal,” I told Mother. “I just remembered about it. I’ll bring it in before I milk Ducklegs in the morning.”
    â€œWell!” she said, “that’s better. You gave me a terrible start. I was sure I couldn’t have used a whole half ton this quickly. Now run along to bed, both of you. I’ll lie down on the sofa in the parlor, so I can look after the fire and refill the beans.”
    Either Grace or I could have taken care of the beans all right. We tried to get Mother to go to bed, but she wouldn’t. She was so tired the frown wrinkles showed deep between her eyes, and her voice was sharp when she said, “We’ll have no more talk about it. I’m perfectly all right, and you children are going to have your full nine hours’ rest. Now run right along—and don’t forget to say your prayers.”
    Before I went to sleep I kept telling myself I’d have to wake up at the first crack of daylight. If I told myself enough times it would almost always work. It did that time, but I didn’t dare to go down the stairs. So, as soon as I’d pulled my overalls and shirt on, I climbed out the window and slid down the woodshed roof. I took a gunny sack from the barn, and was over to the D. & R. G. tracks before the sun came up. There was coal there all right, but I didn’t use my head about picking it up. I started at the back gate of the graveyard, just beyond the end of our lane, and worked toward the south. There weren’t many big lumps, but quite a few small pieces, and I had to go nearly a quarter of a mile before I had the sack half full. By that time it was so heavy I couldn’t carry it, and I had to run home for the wagon. After that, we never had to buy any coal. With Philip and Muriel to help me, we kept the tracks picked clean for two or three miles south of Littleton, and our bin was never empty.

7
    The Sheriff Lends a Hand
    W HEN we’d first moved down to Littleton from the ranch, Mrs. Lenheart, the lady we bought our milk from, had asked me to drive her to Petersburg to deliver some rabbits. She had lots of them. I didn’t know how much to charge her for the trip, so she had given me two half-grown rabbits. Father had helped me build a hutch for them, and they had grown to beat the band.
    That first day I picked up coal along the railroad tracks, my rabbits started acting crazy. I didn’t know what could be the matter with them, so I asked Mother to come out and see if they were sick. I thought maybe I’d cut some locoweed in with the grass I’d been feeding them.
    It was Wednesday, and Mother was hurrying to get everything ready for my afternoon delivery. She was all flushed from the hot kitchen, but she threw a shawl over her shoulders and came out to the hutch with me. She only looked in each pen half a minute, then said, “Why, they’re sisters, aren’t they? Didn’t they come from the same litter?”
    â€œI don’t know,” I said. “They were in a pen with four or five others. Mrs. Lenheart just put her hand in and gave me the first two she got hold of.”
    â€œWell . . . ,” Mother said, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with them, except that they’re lonesome.”
    â€œOh, I hadn’t thought about that,” I said. “I’ll just put them both together in one pen.”
    â€œNo, no. I wouldn’t do that, Son. They’re a little bit upset right now—they might quarrel. You know, sisters sometimes