The Bungalow Boys in the Great Northwest. Goldfrap John Henry

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      Going to the rear of the wagon, which was halted on the steep grade in front of the house, he placed two big stones under each of the rear wheels.

      “Don’t want the wagon to go rolling down the hill, eh, Hamish?” said Mr. Dacre, as they came up.

      “No, sir,” responded Hamish emphatically; “there’s a deep pool in the creek at the bottom of this grade and if ther old wagin ever started a-runnin’ daown it – wall, by chowder, she’d take er bath whether she needed one er not.”

      So saying, he proceeded to unhitch the horses and lead them toward the barn.

      “Why don’t you drag the load in under the mow?” asked Tom, not quite seeing the object of leaving the load stalled in front of the house.

      “Wall, yer see,” drawled Hamish, “thet mow’s got quite a sight of grass inter it naow. By chowder, ef I tried ter put this load in on top, it might raise the roof ofen it, so I’m gon’ ter shift it back a bit.”

      At this juncture Mrs. Bijur appeared – a thin, sharp-featured woman in a blue calico dress, with a sunbonnet to match.

      “Wall, land o’ goodness, ef it ain’t Mister Dacre,” she cried. “Wall, dear suz, what brings you here? Hamish, yer better ’tend to thet sick caow afore you put in yer hay. Do it right arter you’ve got them horses put up.”

      “And leave ther hay out thar, mum?” asked Hamish.

      “Yes, of course. Nobody ain’t goin’ ter steal it, be they? Go on with yer. Mr. Dacre, come in. Hev a glass of buttermilk. Dear suz! if I ain’t run off my mortal leags, an’ – oh, you air a sniffin’, too, be yer?”

      She broke off her torrent of talk as she noticed Mr. Dacre sniffing with a critical nose. The atmosphere was, in fact, impregnated with a very queer odor.

      “Guess some senile egg must have gone off and died round here,” said Tom, with a snicker to Jack.

      “It’s that perfusser,” explained Mrs. Bijur. “I tole him that he’d hev ter stop experimentin’ ef it was goin’ ter smell us out o’ house an’ home this er way. Awful, ain’t it?”

      “Well, it is rather strong,” admitted Mr. Dacre, as they took seats in the stuffy parlor, with its wax fruit under their glass covers, the imitation lace tidies on the backs of the stiff chairs, and the noisy, eight-day clock ticking away like a trip-hammer.

      “What ever is the professor doing?” he inquired.

      “’Sperimentin’,” sniffed Mrs. Bijur, smoothing out her apron.

      “Must be experimenting with cold-storage eggs,” put in Tom.

      “No,” rejoined Mrs. Bijur gravely, “it’s some sort of a ’splosive. I tell you, Mister Dacre, I’m terrible skeered. Reely I be. S’pose thet stuff ’ud go off? We’d all be blown up in our beds.”

      “Unless you happened to be awake, ma’am,” answered Mr. Dacre.

      “Ah, but he don’t ’speriment only at night,” was the rejoinder. “He’s off all day huntin’ bugs and nasty crawly things. It’s only at night he works at it, an’ I tell yer, I’ve got my hands full with them Soopendyke children. They’re allers a-tryin’ to git inter the perfusser’s laboratory – he calls it. If they ever did, dear knows what ’ud happen. The perfusser says that ef any one who didn’t understand that stuff was to meddle with it, it might blow up.”

      “Good gracious!” exclaimed Mr. Dacre, with mock anxiety. “I hope the young Soopendykes are all safely accounted for.”

      “I dunno. There’s no telling whar them young varmints will git ter,” was the reply. “They’re every place all ter oncet, and no place long tergither. Tother day I cotched one tryin’ ter git inter the laboratory. Crawlin’ over ther roof, he was, and goin’ ter drop inter ther window by a water pipe. Seems ter me thet they are just achin’ ter blow themselves up, and – Good land! Look at ’em now!”

      The widow rushed to the window and shook her fist at four young Soopendykes who were disporting themselves in the hay wagon, leaping about among the fragrant stuff, and pitching it at one another, to the great detriment of Hamish’s neat load.

      “Where is Mrs. Soopendyke?” inquired Mr. Dacre, as the widow finished shooing – or imagined she had done so – the invading youngsters from their play.

      “Lyin’ down with a headache,” was the rejoinder. “Poor woman, them young ’uns be a handful, an’ no mistake.”

      As Mrs. Bijur seemed inclined to enlarge on her troubles, Mr. Dacre lost no time, as soon as he could do so, in explaining his errand.

      “Meat!” exclaimed Mrs. Bijur. “Good land, go daown cellar and help yourself. The boys can give me some of those nice fresh fish in trade some time. No, you won’t pay me, Mr. Dacre. Dear suz, ain’t we neighbors, and – Land o’ Gosh-en!”

      The last words came from the good lady in a perfect shriek. And well they might, for her speech had been interrupted by a heavy sound that shook the house to its foundations.

      Bo-o-o-o-m!

      “Good heavens!” cried Mr. Dacre, rushing out of the door, followed by the boys. “An explosion!”

      “That thar dratted explosive soup of the perfusser’s has gone off at last!” shrieked the widow, following them in most undignified haste. As they emerged from the house, a shrill cry rang out:

      “Ma-ma! Oh, ma-ma!”

      “Just as I thought, it’s one of them Soopendykes!” cried Mrs. Bijur. “Good land! Look at that!”

      She indicated the extension of the house, a low one-storied structure, jutting out from the rear. It was in this that the professor had set up his “laboratory,” as Mrs. Bijur called it. Her exclamation was justified.

      A large hole, some three feet six inches in diameter, gaped in the once orderly tin roof. Through the aperture thus disclosed, yellow smoke was pouring in a malodorous cloud, while, on a refuse pile not far away, the eldest Soopendyke, Van Peyster, aged twelve, was picking himself up with an injured expression. His Fauntleroy suit, with clean lace cuffs and collar – fresh that morning – was in blackened shreds. His long yellow curls were singed to a dismal resemblance to their former ideal of mother’s beauty. Master Van Peyster Soopendyke was indeed a melancholy object, but he seemed unhurt, as he advanced toward them with howls of:

      “I didn’t mean ter! I didn’t mean ter!”

      “You young catamount!” shrilled the widow. “What in the name of time hev yer bin a-doin’ of?”

      “Boo-hoo! I jes’ was foolin’ with that stuff of the professor’s an’ it went off!” howled the Soopendyke youngster, while the boys likewise exploded into shouts of laughter. In the meantime, Mr. Dacre had burst in the locked door and discovered that, beyond wrecking the laboratory, the explosion had not done much harm. He had just finished his examination when Mrs. Soopendyke, her hair falling in disorder and her ample form hastily dressed, came rushing out.

      “My boy! My boy!” she cried, in agonized tones. “Van Peyster, my darling, where are you hurt; are you – ”

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