I sh'd kinder liked to 'a' knowed his ma," said Jim, as he took up his rifle and started in earnest for his home.
As he plodded along his way, he thought over all the experiences of the morning.
"Any man," said he to himself, "who can string things together in the way Benedict did this mornin' can be cured.

Startin' in hell, he was all right, an' everything reasomble.

The startin' is the principal p'int, an' if I can git 'im to start from Number Nine, I'll fetch 'im round.

He never was so much to home as he was in the woods, an' when I git 'im thar, and git 'im fishin' and huntin', and sleepin' on hemlock, an' eatin' venison and corn-dodgers, it'll come to 'im that he's been there afore, and he'll look round to find Abram, an' he won't see 'im, and his craze 'll kind o' leak out of 'im afore he knows it." Jim's theory was his own, but it would be difficult for Dr.Radcliffe, and all his fellow-devotees of science, to controvert it.

It contented him, at least; and full of plans and hopes, stimulated by the thought that he had a job on hand that would not only occupy his thoughts, but give exercise to the benevolent impulses of his heart, he pressed on, the miles disappearing behind him and shortening before, as if the ground had been charmed.
He stopped at noon at a settler's lonely house, occupied by Mike Conlin, a friendly Irishman.