whispered, "do you think the orchard is perfectly safe?"

Mr. Ford smiled. "Why, Kate, this is June!" he exclaimed confidently. "Who ever heard.of a frost in June-at least a frost hard enough to hurt prunes that are as far along as ours? You surely don't mean to say seriously that you think there's any danger of frost to-night! Why, it's balmy !"

"I suppose it is a foolish fear, Albert," replied Mrs. Ford, with a trace of anxiety still in her voice. "But I was just thinking how much depended on our getting a good crop this fall, and I guess it made me a little nervous."

It was now her husband's turn to look thoughtful. But he was not a man to borrow trouble, and his face quickly cleared as he said reassuringly, "Don't worry, dear. There is n't the slightest chance of a frost to-night."

She

Mrs. Ford was not entirely reassured. was thinking about the June frost that old Charlie, the hired man, had told her about that morning. True, it had happened thirty years ago, and there had never been a June frost since. But it could happen again-it might happen again. And this was the thought that was troubling her now. Still, she reflected, a June frost was at best a highly improbable thing, so she decided not to worry her husband by mentioning what old Charlie had said.

The Fords had bought their prune farm three years ago, paying half the purchase price in cash and giving a mortgage on the place to secure payment of the balance, which was to be paid within three years under penalty of foreclosure of the mortgage. The first year, they had a good crop of prunes; and, as the market-price was excellent that season, they realized enough from the orchard to make a substantial payment on the mortgage. The second year, the crop was almost a failure; and it was only by the hardest kind of pinching and scraping that the Fords were able to pay the expenses of the farm and the interest on the mortgage. The final payment on the mortgage had to be met this year, so that everything depended on the year's prune crop. A good crop, and the farm would be theirs; a poor crop, and they must lose not only much of the money they had put into the place, but also the hard, grinding toil of three years.

Small wonder that the thought of a killing frost made Mrs. Ford look worried. But as she leaned back comfortably against the big, padded seat of the Wilsons' car and listened to the soothing whir of the smooth-running motor, her fears gradually died away. By the time they were half-way on their journey, she had forgotten

them entirely, and was chatting gaily with Mrs. Wilson.

In the meantime, and almost before the last shrill rattle of the big auto siren had died away, Howard and Walter, who had been left in charge of the Ford farm, were preparing for a pleasant evening by themselves. The crokinole board was set up, and delighted preparations made for a contest of unlimited length to decide the longdisputed championship. The boys were great friends, and, incidentally, great rivals at this particular sport. An exciting game was soon in full swing.

Time passes swiftly when one is doing something absorbingly pleasant. It is therefore not surprising that when the boys, from sheer weariness, finally stopped playing, the hands of the big wooden clock had crept round to eleven. It had been quite warm earlier in the evening, and the fire in the fireplace, which had not been a large one in the first place, had been allowed to die down to a flat bed of coals. Howard looked at the clock in surprise and shivered slightly. "My!" he exclaimed. "It must be turning chilly. We'd better fix up a good fire in the fireplace, the folks will be pretty cold by the time they get home."

As the boys opened the door to go out to the woodpile for some big fir chunks, a stinging draft of air blew into their faces. As they came back into the house with their load, Howard Ford looked thoughtful. Although only a little past fifteen, he was a well-grown, bright, self-reliant young American, and his training had been of a nature to give these qualities unusual development. He had helped with the orchard work every vacation for the past two years, working under the competent instruction of old Charlie Foss, an orchard man of thirty years' experience. He had made good use of his brain, as well as of his hands, and was a practical young prunegrower to his finger-tips. He turned to Walter. "Do you think it could get cold enough to freeze?" he asked anxiously.

"Of course not!" replied Walter, vehemently. "It does n't freeze in June!"

Howard did not seem entirely reassured. He, too, had heard what old Charlie had said that morning about the memorable June frost thirty years ago that destroyed every prune crop in the valley. He knew, too, something about how much was depending on the prune crop this year, and the anxious look on his face deepened. "I think I'd better call up father on the 'phone," he said quietly. He went into the hall where the telephone hung, and was gone several minutes. When he came back, his face wore the same

anxious look. "I can't get anybody," he explained. "Our line must be out of order."

"What's the difference!" exclaimed Walter, a little testily. "There's no danger." Walter's father was wealthy, and did not grow prunes.

Howard did not reply at once, but looked at the clock and drew considerable comfort from the fact that it was now nearly half-past eleven. "The folks will be here in a few minutes, anyway," he remarked more cheerfully.

The boys heaped up the fir chunks on the fire until the flames were crackling and dancing merrily. Then each pulled up a big chair in front of the fire, and they talked and gazed sleepily into the bright flames. Gradually conversation began to lag. The eyes that looked into the fire drooped more and more, until both boys were sound asleep.

They had been sleeping for perhaps ten minutes, when both awoke with a start. "Ting-aling! Ting-a-ling! Ting-a-ling!" galloped the swift, sharp strokes of the frost alarm in Mr. Ford's bedroom, sounding as loud through the half-opened door as if it were right against their ears. The boys sprang out of their chairs, and, for a moment too startled to move, stood looking at each other with frightened faces.

Howard was first to recover his presence of mind. His face stiffened with resolution as he gripped Walter's arm. "Walter," he said, speaking in sharp, rapid tones, "do you know what that means? It means that it's already within eight degrees of freezing-point in the orchard. If it drops to freezing-point before we can get the smudge-pots going, our prunes will be ruined and so will we. Charlie's gone to town to-night, and won't be back until to-morrow. It's up to us to get the pots lighted!"

"And we'll do it!" was Walter's ringing re

sponse.

"Come on then!" cried Howard. Pulling on their sweaters, they started on the run for the tcol house, where the torches and cans of gasolene were always kept in readiness during the frost season. Then, each with a torch and a large can of gasolene, they made for the orchard. When they came to the prune drier, a small, low building at the entrance to the orchard, Howard stopped a moment to glance at the thermometer that hung outside the door in a protected niche. The temperature had not fallen any more as yet. It was still eight degrees above freezing-point. Howard turned to Walter with a grimly hopeful face. They hurried into the orchard.

This thermometer that hung outside the drier was called a frost thermometer. It was of the same outward appearance as an ordinary good

sized dial thermometer, and was equipped with a steel hand like that of a clock, only much more delicate. This moved across the dial, controlled by the rise and fall of a concealed mercury column. When the steel hand approached within a certain number of degrees of freezing-point, it touched a small iron pin projecting from the face of the dial. This pin was connected with a small battery inside the thermometer case. The moment that the steel hand touched the iron pin, a contact was formed and an electric circuit completed, exactly as is done when one presses the button of a door-bell. From the small battery inside the thermometer case a wire ran to Mr. Ford's bedroom, where it was connected with an electric bell. The moment that the temperature dropped dangerously near to freezing-point, the bell in Mr. Ford's room would send out its warning alarm, and make it possible, with prompt work, for the smudge-pots to be lighted in time to protect the prunes from the deadly frost.

As Howard led the way rapidly into the orchard, he realized that there was not a moment to lose. The temperature might begin dropping at any minute. It was after twelve now, and within the next hour the mercury was almost certain to go down to freezing-point. He realized that the safety of the orchard to-night depended on two possibilities: the immediate arrival of his father with adequate assistance; secondly, the ability of Walter and himself, unaided, to get the smudge-pots lighted before the frost struck the orchard. And, as he reflected on how many pots must be lighted, and the short time in which it must be done, he felt, with a sinking heart, that it was almost a hopeless task. But at least they would save what they could.

These smudge-pots were simply tins about the size of a gallon lard-pail, filled with crude oil. This is a very low-grade oil, thick, black, and greasy. It does not ignite from immediate contact with fire, hence it is necessary to pour gasolene over the oil before it can be lighted. When burning, the smudge-pots send up a dense smoke or smudge-hence the name. The pots are set on the ground, throughout the orchard, varying in frequency from fifty to one hundred and fifty to the acre, and are so placed as to afford maximum warmth to the greatest number of trees. If the smudge-pots are properly located, and are lighted before the temperature in an orchard has dropped too low, they will keep it above the freezing-point.

Howard and Walter darted among the trees, pouring and lighting as they ran. At first it seemed quite easy, and they made splendid progress. The first half of the orchard was covered

past forty minutes had been a cruel one, and it now began to tell. Their backs ached from the continual stooping and darting forward; their arms hurt cruelly from the weight of the heavy gasolene cans. Their legs were beginning to sag under them, from the swift, long-sustained pace over the rough plowed ground. After ten minutes more of this grilling effort, they were ready to drop from sheer exhaustion.

Walter looked at Howard with brave but despairing face. "I'm pretty near all in!" he gasped.

Howard, himself staggering, smiled back at him grimly. "Stay with it, Walt!" he cried hoarsely.

Walter set his lips and forced himself wearily along. And so they both struggled on, dragging their tired limbs along by sheer grit, feeling with each step forward that they could go no farther, yet each time rallying with fierce determination

ache cruelly. Still they kept on. But it could not be for much longer. Human endurance had almost reached its limit. They were only lads, without the hardened frames and toughened sinews of men, yet they had already accomplished what few men could have done.

Walter was the first to fall, dropping in a heap, with the torch still clutched in his hand. Howard, feeling his strength leaving him with every second, managed to stagger about for a few moments longer. Then he, too, collapsed, within a few feet of where Walter had fallen.

ALL this because of a bursting automobile tire.

At the first intimation that the temperature was beginning to fall pretty rapidly, the Fords, alarmed for the safety of their orchard, had explained matters to the Farringtons, and prepared to leave immediately for home. As it was still early, only a little past eleven, Mr. Ford did not

feel like asking the Wilsons to take them home, and thus spoil their own evening. He was just on the point of asking Mr. Farrington to have his chauffeur take them home in one of his cars, when Mr. Wilson overheard him.

"Nonsense!" he interrupted genially. "I'll take you myself."

It was just about an even twenty miles from Farrington's to the Ford place. As the roads were in very good condition and the car a powerful six-cylinder affair, Mr. Wilson assured his friend that they could easily make the distance in forty minutes. They had been an hour in coming, but there had been no need of haste then.

The first half of the distance was covered in a little less than twenty minutes. The speed-indicator showed thirty miles an hour, and the engine was running beautifully. Suddenly there was a report like that of a heavy gun, and Mr. Wilson brought the car to an abrupt halt. One of the rear tires had burst.

"It's all right," reassured Mr. Wilson, noticing the anxious look on Mr. Ford's face. "I have extra tires, and it 'll take but a few minutes to put one on." So saying, he jumped down and ran to the back of the car, where the extra tires were always kept. He came back a moment later, with a look of disappointment on his face. "Hard luck!" he exclaimed. "Pete must have forgotten to put them in when we started. We 'll have to patch it."

Mr. Ford knew that this would mean at least half an hour's delay, probably much more. But there was nothing to do but wait. It was entirely too far to think of walking. They would simply have to make the best of it. While he was helping Mr. Wilson with the tire, he could not avoid noticing that the air was getting colder and colder. With every minute of delay he could see his orchard that much nearer to ruin. He did not look at his wife, for he did not want her to see his worried face.

At length after what seemed hours of waiting, but was in reality only a little more than a single hour, Mr. Wilson announced that the tire was repaired. Mr. Ford climbed wearily into the seat beside his wife. Then noticing her pale, anxious face, he placed his arm protectingly about her, and whispered: "Never mind, dear. We still have each other, and Howard!"

Mr. Wilson knew the importance of making the rest of the distance in the quickest possible time, and sent the powerful car forward at a furious speed. In a very few minutes they were at the Fords' gate. Mr. Ford helped his wife out of the auto, then ran up the front steps.

Striking a match, he glanced at the small thermometer that hung against one of the porch posts. His head dropped between his shoulders as he walked slowly into the house, and on his face was a look of utter dejection.

As he stepped into the living-room, he started in surprise. It was empty. The fire was still blazing merrily, but there was no sign of Howard and Walter. The look of hopelessness on his face changed swiftly into one of wondering hope. He turned to his wife, who had just come in with Mr. Wilson, and said, "Wait here a moment, dear. Frank and I are going to take a look at the orchard."

They had not taken fifty steps in the direction of the orchard when Mr. Ford's nostrils caught the unmistakable odor of the smudge. It was a good, strong odor, too, such as could come only from many burning smudge-pots. Filled with sudden joyful hope, he made for the orchard on the run, followed closely by Mr. Wilson. As they came nearer, they could see the huge masses of smoke rising against the starlit sky, and could catch a glimpse here and there of a smudge-pot burning steadily among the trees. Filled with sudden, overpowering emotion, Mr. Ford caught his friend's arm to steady himself. "God bless the boys!" he murmured huskily.

Going over the orchard rapidly, but with experienced eye, he glanced from time to time at the little thermometer which he had taken from the porch and brought with him. Gradually his tense features softened into an expression of gratitude and relief.

"Where are the boys?" asked Mr. Wilson.

The question brought Mr. Ford to himself with a shock. For a moment he looked puzzled, then worried. He had been almost over the whole orchard, and had seen nothing of them. "Howard! Walter!" he called in his powerful voice. There was no response. He called again, and then again. Still no response. The two men

looked at each other with anxious faces.

Mr. Ford glanced thoughtfully at the many smudge-pots burning, then at a sudden thought which came into his mind, he turned pale and began to examine the ground very closely as they went along. All at once, his keen eye caught sight of a gasolene torch on the ground, still burning faintly. As they hurried toward it, a cry broke simultaneously from both men. next moment they had the two exhausted boys in their arms, and were carrying them tenderly to the house.

The

But the crop was saved. And the two men who told the story a few days later were the proudest fathers in the State of Oregon.