CHAPTER

I Brains, Gall, an' Luck

II Ten-Centers

III Society Pigs

IV Underpinnin'

V Plain Facts

VI A Flea in the Ear

VII Beating the Movies

VIII The Dump Scheme

IX A Slip of a Gal

X An Unexpected Jolt

XI Town Rats

XII Bottled Divils

XIII The Joy-ride

XIV Surprised at Herself

XV Country Rats

XVI In the Klink

XVII Friendly Advice

XVIII A Moist Reception

XIX Jerry, Me Pardner

XX Under Suspicion

XXI Hard of Hearing

XXII Earning Their Passage

XXIII Rescued

XXIV Exit Billy

XXV Laffin'-Gas

XXVI Heart Trouble

XXVII A Sermon with a Punch

XXVIII The Hold-up

XXIX Counsel for the Defense

XXX The Heart-touch

*THE TOUCH OF ABNER*

*CHAPTER I*

*BRAINS, GALL, AN' LUCK*

"Put me down fer a thousand."

These words drawled slowly forth produced an immediate effect, and

caused fifty people to straighten suddenly up and look enquiringly

around. The reporter of _The Live Wire_ gave one lightning glance

toward the speaker, and then began to write rapidly upon his pad lying

before him. The chairman, too, was visibly affected. He leaned

forward, and searched the room with his small squinting eyes.

"Did I hear aright?" he asked. "Did someone say 'a thousand?'"

At once a man in the back row started to rise, but was pulled quickly

down by a woman sitting at his side.

"Let go my coat-tails, Tildy," he whispered.

"But, Abner, are you crazy?"

"Crazy, be hanged! Leave me alone, can't ye?"

"Oh, it's you, Mr. Andrews, is it?" the chairman remarked.

"Yes, it's me all right."

"And you wish to give one thousand dollars?"

"That's what I said."

"Well, then, will you please step forward and sign your name?"

"Oh, that feller waggin' the pen kin do it better'n me. Jist tell him

to put Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, down fer a thousand."

"But we would prefer to have your own signature," the chairman insisted.

"It is always customary in cases such as this."

"Are ye afraid that I'll back out, an' won't pay?"

"No, not at all, Mr. Andrews. But, you see, it's more business-like to

get your name in your own handwriting. We shall make an exception,

though, in your case if you so earnestly desire it."

"Now ye're shoutin'."

"Doing what?"

"Shoutin'; talkin' sense. Don't ye git me?"

"H'm, I see," and the chairman leaned his elbow upon the table and

gently stroked his chin with the fingers of his right hand. "I didn't

understand you at first, as I am not accustomed to such expressions."

"But ye understand the meanin' of a thousand dollars, don't ye?"

"Indeed, I do, Mr. Andrews, and what is more, I wish to thank you very

heartily. I am sure that all here to-night feel most grateful to you

for your generosity."

"Oh, I don't want ye'r gratitude, an' as fer as I kin see, it's worth

darn little."

"Abner! Abner!" the voice at his side chided. "What are you saying?"

"Didn't ye hear, Tildy? Where's ye'r ears?" and Abner turned slightly

toward his protesting wife. "I was merely remarkin' that the gratitude

of this gatherin' of men an' women is worth darn little. Now, d'ye

hear?"

"How do you make that out, Mr. Andrews?" the chairman sharply

questioned. "Such a statement demands an explanation."

"Hear! Hear!" came from several.

"How do I make that out?" Abner repeated, as he scratched the back of

his head, and let his eyes roam for a few seconds around the room.

"Well, I'm jist judgin' accordin' to what I have seen an' heard. Me an'

Tildy came to town to-day to do a little shoppin', an' happenin' to hear

that there was to be a meetin' of the influential people of this place

to see about the buildin' of a Home fer orphan children, we made up our

minds to come too. We're mightily interested in orphans, we surely are.

I've often told Tildy that it's a downright shame that this town hasn't

sich a Home, where poor little orphan kids kin be well looked after."

"You're quite right, Mr. Andrews," the chairman assented. "We have

delayed this matter too long already. But now that you have given us

such splendid assistance, the work should go rapidly forward. I am very

glad that you and your wife came to this meeting."

"Yes, me an' Tildy came here," Abner continued, "expectin' to see

somethin' real grand. We've heard a great deal of highfalutin' talk

about poor little orphans an' what ought to be done fer 'em. But,

skiddy-me-shins, as fer as I kin see it'll all end in wind, an'

nuthin''ll be done."

"I object to such remarks," a pompous little man protested, rising

suddenly to his feet, and appealing to the chairman. "We didn't come

here to listen to such language and abuse from this ignorant

countryman."

"You jist flop down an' hold ye'r tongue, Ikey Dimock," Abner ordered.

"I've got the floor at present, an' I intend to keep it, too, until I've

had my say. You made a big harangue a little while ago, an' how much was

it worth? Ten dollars, that's all. An' you one of the richest men in

town. An' that's the way with the rest of yez. Ye've talked, but when

it came to givin' yez wer'n't there. That's the reason why I said ye'r

gratitude is worth darn little. I don't want ye'r gratitude, anyway.

It's them poor little orphan kids I'm worried about, an' I guess I'll

worry a long time before any Home is built, judgin' by this meetin'.

Come, Tildy, let's go home. I've had enough of this."

A complete silence reigned in the room as Abner and his wife walked

slowly to the door. When they were at last out of the building, the

chairman breathed a sigh of relief, and a slight smile flickered across

his face.

"Now that the cyclone is over," he remarked, "we will gather up the

fragments that remain and go on with our building."

A ripple of amusement passed through the assembly, and there were

numerous whispered conversations. Instead of being very indignant at

what Abner had said, all, except Isaac Dimock, were inclined to treat

the countryman's cutting words as a joke. They wondered, nevertheless,

at the offer he had made of one thousand dollars. The reporter kept

steadily on with his writing. He was alive to the situation, and

chuckled to himself as he thought of the stirring article he would have

for _The Live Wire_ in the morning.

Abner untied his horse from the post near the place of meeting, while

his wife scrambled up into the carriage. Neither had spoken a word

since leaving the building. It was only when well started on their

homeward way that Mrs. Andrews ventured to speak.

"What was the matter with you to-night, Abner?" she enquired.

"Nuthin', as fer as I know."

"Yes, there was, or you wouldn't have spoken and acted the way you did."

"Oh, I jist wanted to give them folks a jolt, that's all."

"And made a fool of yourself, didn't you?"

"De ye think I did, Tildy? Gid-dap, Jerry."

"I know it. Only a fool or a lunatic would offer to give one thousand

dollars when he hasn't a cent to his name."

"Ye'r wrong, Tildy. I'm not crazy, an' I don't think I'm altogether a

fool. It was somethin' else that shook me timbers at the meetin'."

"What was it?"

"Oh, you know as well as I do. I imagined I was as rich as I used to be

several hundred years ago, an'----"

"For pity sakes, Abner, stop that nonsense. Because you think you lived

hundreds of years ago, and that you were very rich and a great man,

doesn't make you rich and great now. You're only Abner Andrews of Ash

Point, and can hardly pay your bills, let alone give one thousand

dollars toward building a Home for orphan children."

"But, Tildy, I thought I was really old man Astor, an' saw millions of

dollars right before me."

"Well, if that's the way you felt, I think it's about time we called in

the doctor. There's surely something wrong with your head."

"But, Tildy, ye don't understand. De ye think I was goin' to set there

an' let them people git off with their cussed meanness? Not by a

jugful! Gid-dap, Jerry, what's the matter with ye?"

"But what about that thousand dollars? Do you expect to pay it?"

"Sure I do."

"Where's it to come from, then?"

"Oh, I'll find it somewheres."

"Not out of that old farm of ours, let me tell you that. Why, it's

nothing but a heap of gravel, and you know as well as I do how hard we

scratch and dig to raise anything. But you would buy the place, no

matter what I said."

"It's a mighty fine situation, though, Tildy. G'long, Jerry."

"It may be that, Abner, but you can't live on a fine situation these

days. Haven't you always had fine situations for over twenty years now,

and what have they amounted to?"

"Yes, I've touched on a good many things in that time, Tildy. I ran the

old 'Flyin' Scud' on the river fer five years; an' then I bought that

thrashin' machine from Sol Britt, an' ran it fer awhile. After that I

went in fer lumberin', an' kept it up fer several winters. Now I'm into

farmin'. Yes, ye'r quite right about the situations. I've had several

fine ones, sure enough."

"And made a mess of them all, Abner. Everything you touched failed.

And I expect it will be the same with the farm."

"Oh, I don't know about that, Tildy. We manage to git along an' make a

comfortable livin'. I've allus depended upon three things to pull me

through."

"You have? What are they? I never heard of them."

"Brains, gall, an' luck. They've never failed me yit, an' I guess they

won't now."

"H'm," and Mrs. Andrews tossed her head in disgust. "I know you've got

plenty of gall, but as for brains and luck, well, I have my serious

doubts."

"Yes, I guess ye'r right, Tildy. I reckon I had a lot of gall when I

asked ye to marry me. But as fer brains an' luck, well I don't know.

Gid-dap, Jerry."

To these words Mrs. Andrews made no reply. Silence reigned for a few

minutes, save for the rattle of the carriage and the beat of the horse's

feet upon the road. Abner grew restless. He shifted uneasily in his

seat, and coughed. Then he began to whistle, a sure sign of the

agitated state of his mind. The whistle soon gave place to the humming

of the only piece he knew:

"When Bill Larkins made his money,

Piled it up in heaps galore,

Dam old fool he wasn't happy,

'Cause he always wanted more."

Even this didn't have the desired effect. He could stand anything from

his wife but dead silence. That alone affected him.

"Say, Tildy," he at length ventured.

"Well, what is it? I should think you'd be ashamed to speak to me after

such insulting words."

"But, Tildy."

"Yes, I hear you. What is it?"

"Didn't Ikey Dimock squirm when I landed on him? Ho, ho!"

"And I squirmed, too, Abner. I never felt so ashamed of anything in all

my life."

"But ye didn't squirm like Ikey, though, Tildy. My, it tickled me all

to pieces to give him that jolt. Why, I knew Ikey when he used to pick

pin-feathers off his mother's chickens when she was gittin' 'em ready

fer market. He wasn' sich a bad critter then. But since he got hitched

to that high-flyer, an' set up in the hardware bizness, ye can't touch

him with a ten-foot pole. But I made him squirm. Ho, ho! G'long,

Jerry."

"Maybe you'll squirm, Abner, when they come for that money. Then it

won't be such fun. I wonder what Jess'll say. She's coming home

to-morrow, remember."

"Jess! Skiddy-me-shins! I fergot all about her!"

"You certainly did. And you must have forgotten that it took every cent

we could make and scrape together to put her through the Seminary. What

will she say and think when she finds out what you have done?"

"Don't let's tell her, Tildy. She needn't know anythin' about it."

"H'm, that's easier said than done. You'll be the first one to tell

her, Abner, when you meet her in the morning at the station."

"No, I won't, Tildy. Jess'll not hear it from me, blamed if she will.

G'long, Jerry."

*CHAPTER II*

*TEN-CENTERS*

Abner was early at the station the next morning, and after he had

hitched his horse to a post near the building, he strolled into the

waiting-room. Seeing the station agent busily reading _The Live Wire_ he

stepped toward the ticket-window and peered through.

"'Mornin', Sam," he accosted. "How's the train?"

"Fifteen minutes late," the agent replied as he lowered his paper.

"You're early, Mr. Andrews. You'll have to wait nearly an hour."

"Oh, I don't mind that, Sam," and Abner reached down into his pocket as

he spoke and brought forth a pipe, tobacco, and knife. "I allus make a

bizness of bein' ahead of time. I s'pose ye often see people runnin' to

catch the train, eh?"

"Indeed I do, and they generally make a lot of trouble for themselves

and everybody else."

"That's jist it. I've often told Tildy that if people'd use their

brains more an' their legs less it'd be a darn sight better fer all

consarned. What's the news, Sam?"

"Why, haven't you seen the paper this morning, Mr. Andrews?" the agent

asked in surprise.

"Naw, I don't go much on dailies; they've too many 'vertisement. I take

the _Family Herald_ and git a hull library every week fer one dollar a

year. Ye kin find most everythin' ye want in the _Herald_ from raisin'

hogs to teethin' babies. It's sartinly great."

"But _The Live Wire_ should interest you this morning, Mr. Andrews. It

has a long article on the meeting last night, and about your generous

gift toward the Orphan Home."

"Ye don't tell! Well, I guess I know as much about last night's meetin'

as the feller who was there waggin' the pen. That's the trouble with

_The Live Wire_; it tells ye things ye already know."

Although Abner pretended to be completely indifferent about the account

of the meeting, in reality he was most anxious to read what the paper

had to say about it. But after what he had said about the dailies, it

would not do for him to back down now. The agent would have a laugh at

his expense. He could buy a copy at the drug-store up the street.

"Keep an eye on my hoss, will ye, Sam? I've got to git some corn-salve

fer Tildy. She fergot it yesterday, an' her corns were mighty bad last

night."

"Is your horse afraid of trains, Mr. Andrews?"

"Afraid of trains! Well, I guess ye don't know Jerry. Why, that hoss

likes a noise better'n he does his oats."

"That's curious, isn't it?"

"S'pose 'tis. But ye see, Jerry was raised in a pasture near the

railroad, an' then he lived in town fer a few years. After I bought him

an' took him to Ash Pint, it was so quiet there he began to pine an'

pine, an' wouldn't eat nor drink. Thinkin' he was goin' to die, I

brought him to town to see the hoss doctor. But, skiddy-me-shins, if he

didn't buck right up as soon as he heard the whistle of the train. He

was like a new hoss."

"Has he got over the quietness of the country yet?" the agent enquired.

"Not altogether. He kin stand it fer a few days, an' then when I see

he's longin' fer the trains, I tak' the big tin horn and blow it close

to his ears fer all I'm worth. That cheers him up a bit; but there's

nothin' like the yell of one of them big en-gines to give him solid

comfort. Jerry is sartinly a knowin' hoss."

Abner left the waiting-room and sauntered along the street in the

direction of the drug-store. He knew all the business men in Glucom,

and they always spoke or nodded to him in passing. But this morning the

ones he met seemed unusually friendly, and stopped to shake hands, and

enquire after his health. It was Lawyer Rackshaw, however, who was the

most effusive. He met Abner just in front of the drug-store, and

accosted him as a long-lost friend.

"How is your wife, Mr. Andrews, and your pretty daughter?" he asked, at

the same time shaking the farmer's hand most vigorously.

"Say, let up," Abner protested, as he struggled to free his hand. "De

ye think I'm an old pump? If ye'r dry, come into the store, an' we'll

have a sody together. That's the best I kin do fer ye this mornin'."

"Ha, ha," the lawyer laughed. "I guess you're worth pumping, all right,

Mr. Andrews. A man who can flash up a thousand, such as you did at the

meeting last night, must have more where that came from, eh?

"If I have, it's because I have taken darn good care to keep out of the

way of lawyers," Abner retorted. "But, there, I must git along," he

added, "an' buy Tildy a corn-salve before the train comes in."

"Oh, you have plenty of time," and the lawyer pulled out his watch.

"Why, you've half an hour yet. But, say, Mr. Andrews, I've been reading

the account of last night's meeting. My, I admire your pluck. You did

certainly put it over Ikey Dimock all right. Ha, ha, that was a good

one. You've seen the paper, I suppose?"

"Naw, I don't go much on papers," was the reply. "I seldom read 'em."

"But you must read this one, though. Here, you may have mine."

Abner took the paper, and thrust it into his pocket. "Thank ye, I'll

read it when I git time. I must be off now, or I'll be late fer the

train."

"Have a cigar, Mr. Andrews. Here's a rare Havana. I know you're fond of

a good smoke."

"How many of these de ye smoke a day, Mr. Rackshaw?" Abner asked, as he

carefully studied the band upon the cigar.

"Oh, generally five or six, and sometimes more. It all depends on what

I am doing."

"Cost quite a bit, eh?"

"Yes, I suppose I burn between two and three hundred dollars during the

year."

"Ye don't tell! Bizness must be good, eh? I kin hardly afford to keep

me old pipe goin', let alone smoke cigars."

"Oh, that's the way you've been able to save, Mr. Andrews, and have a

nice sum to give for the orphanage. Isn't that so?"

"How much d' you intend to fork over fer that Home, Mr. Rackshaw?" Abner

enquired.

"I? Oh, I shall give my services free; that will be my contribution."

"H'm, in what way?"

"There will be considerable work to be done, such as legal advice, and

other important matters to be attended to. I intend to do all that for

nothing."

"Well, that is generous of ye, Mr. Rackshaw. I s'pose sich things will

be needed, no doubt. From what I understand, others in town are goin'

to do the same as you, an' so the poor little orphans will be housed,

an' clothed, an' fed by the advice an' good wishes of all. It sartinly

will be a great institution. Now, look here," and Abner suddenly

reached out and laid his big right hand upon the lawyer's shoulder, "I

want to give ye a word of advice."

"Excuse me, Mr. Andrews," and Rackshaw stepped back a pace. "I must

hurry away. I have important business on hand, which must be attended

to at once. And, besides, I must not detain you any longer, as you might

be late for the train. Good-morning, Mr. Andrews."

Abner bought the corn-salve, and made his way back to the station. He

chuckled to himself as he moved along the street, and his eyes twinkled

with amusement. Finding that he had ten minutes to spare, he seated

himself upon a box on the platform, and drew forth the copy of _The Live

Wire_. As he did so his hand touched the cigar in his vest pocket. He

pulled it out, and looked it over. Then he scratched the back of his

head with the fingers of his left hand.

"Wonder what that bait's fer?" he mused. "Rackshaw didn't part with

that cigar fer nuthin'. He's fishin' fer somethin', all right. But,

skiddy-me-shins, he'll have to use different bait than that if he

expects to catch Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint."

Replacing the cigar, he unfolded the paper, and began to read the

account of the meeting, which occupied the leading place on the front

page. The reporter had written a most stirring article, and had

recorded every word that Abner had uttered, including his tilt with

Isaac Dimock. Then followed a list of those who had contributed, with

Abner's name leading for one thousand dollars. The other amounts were

small, the largest being fifty dollars from the chairman, Henry

Whittles.

"Great snakes!" Abner exclaimed in disgust. "Is that all Whittles gave,

an' him the richest man in town! I wonder----"

But just then the train blew.

*CHAPTER III*

*SOCIETY PIGS*

There was little wonder that Abner suddenly straightened himself up

while an expression of pride beamed in his eyes, as Jess stepped from

the train, and hurried toward him. Nature had been kind to this girl of

eighteen, and had endowed her with more than an ordinary charm of form

and features. Joy and health radiated from her every movement as

naturally and unconsciously as an orchard in bloom sheds its sweetness.

Her sympathetic nature and impulsive disposition caused her to be

beloved by all who knew her, and Jess Andrews was a general favorite.

The eyes of several youths followed her closely as she hurried along the

platform to where her father was standing.

"Have you been waiting long, daddy dear?" she asked, after she had given

him an affectionate hug and kiss.

"Not overly long," Abner replied, as he held her at arm's length, and

viewed her with undisguised admiration. "My you've grown," he added.

"Ye look jist like a peach."

"Do I?" Jess laughingly asked, as she brushed back a wayward tress of

dark-brown hair. "It has been so long since I have seen a peach that I

hardly know what one looks like. I wish I had one now, as I am almost

starved. I wouldn't look at it long, I can tell you."

"Well, let's git home at once," Abner replied. "Ye'r ma has some fine

preserved peaches, which she's been keepin' fer ye, an' she wouldn't let

me touch 'em. Jerry is over there by that post. I brought the express

along this mornin' so's to take ye'r trunk. I'll go an' git it right

off."

Jess went over and stroked Jerry's glossy neck, and gave him the last

chocolate she possessed. It merely whetted his appetite, and he eagerly

begged for more, by pawing the ground and thrusting his nose into the

friendly hand.

"You have a sweet tooth, haven't you, old boy?" and Jess again patted

his neck. "You shall have two pieces of candy when I get more, though

dear knows when that will be," she regretfully sighed. "I am hard up,

Jerry, as I spent my last cent on these chocolates, and don't like to

ask daddy for any more money, for I know how difficult it has been for

him to pay my bills at the Seminary. But, never mind, when I get to

work I shall have plenty. But here comes daddy now."

Abner approached, trundling Jess' trunk upon a truck he had procured

from the station agent. He dumped his load upon the ground at the rear

of the wagon, and then stooped to lift the trunk up into the express.

As he did so, the copy of _The Live Wire_ slipped from his coat pocket

and fell at his feet. Jess at once stepped forward and picked it up.

"Hi, there; what are ye doin'?" Abner enquired, as he suddenly

straightened himself up, and looked quickly around.

"You dropped this, that's all," and Jess held up the paper as she spoke.

"Here, give me that," was the peremptory order. "It's dangerous."

"Dangerous! What do you mean?"

"It'll cause an explosion, if ye'r not careful, 'specially if ye open

it. 'Taint safe."

"Why, it's only _The Live Wire_, daddy! It surely can't do any harm."

"Yes, it will, jist as soon as ye open it. There'd be sich an explosion

that it 'ud fairly take me head off."

Into the girl's eyes came a mingled expression of fear and surprise.

What did her father mean by such words? Could there be anything wrong

with his brain? He had never acted so strangely before.

"Are ye goin' to give me that paper?" Abner asked.

"Certainly," Jess replied as she acceded to his request. "But I think

you might tell me what makes it so dangerous, daddy."

"High explosives, that's what 'tis. It's worse than nitro-glycerine,

which goes off jist as soon as ye look at it."

"But you should not carry it, then, daddy. If it is not safe for me to

touch, neither is it for you, so there."

"Oh, I know how to handle it," Abner chuckled, as he thrust the paper

back into his pocket. "Climb up now, an' let's be off."

"There is something in it you don't want me to see; isn't that it?" Jess

asked.

"Mebbe there is. Anyway, I don't want to be blown to bits. Whoa,

there, Jerry. What's the matter with ye? Take the reins, Jess, an'

hold that hoss. He's jist dyin' fer an explosion. I kin tell it by the

way he twists his ears."

As soon as Abner had hoisted the trunk up into the express, he climbed

over the wheel, took his seat by his daughter's side, seized the reins,

and headed Jerry for home.

"You didn't take the truck back," Jess reminded him as soon as they had

started.

"Well, neither I did! But, never mind, Sam'll git it. He might as well

be doin' somethin', the lazy rascal. It's his bizness to wait on the

public, an' we're as much the public as anybody. G'long, Jerry."

"My, I'm glad to be back," and Jess gave a deep sigh of contentment. "I

never saw the fields look so pretty, nor the trees such a wonderful

variety of green. I missed all that at the Seminary. That beautiful

maple over there in front of Mr. Sanders' house seems to have grown

since I went away."

"H'm," Abner grunted, "Joe should cut that down; it hides the view."

"Oh, daddy, don't say that. Just think what such a tree means. There

is so much in it."

"Y'bet there is; more'n a cord of good firewood."

"I don't mean that, daddy. I wasn't thinking of the wood, but of the

beauty of form and color on golden, summer days, and the mystic music

when the wind is rushing through its branches."

"Oh, it's them things ye'r thinkin' of. Well, mebbe ye'r right. But a

piece of good dry maple in our old stove on a cold day in winter gives

all the poetry an' music I want. Guess ye've been studyin' sich things

at the Seminary, eh?"

"For a time we did. But this last term most of us were greatly

interested in Social Service studies."

"Ye don't tell! What's that, anyway? A new kind of religion or

prayer-meetin', eh?"

"Oh, no," and Jess laughed merrily. "It is merely social reform, that

is, efforts to lessen and remove existing evils."

"Well, that's interestin'. Pretty big problem, I should say; almost as

hard as clearin' a dog's hide of fleas."

"Much harder, daddy. You see, we have to deal with human nature at its

lowest, and elevate it step by step."

"Oh, now I begin to spy daylight. Ye'r to be a kind of human elevator,

sich as they have in big stores, which boosts ye from cellar to garret

quicker'n ye kin say 'jack-rabbit.'"

"It's something like that, only this is a long and difficult work,

needing no end of patience. It means not only fighting such evils as

the liquor traffic, horse-racing, gambling, graft and such things, but

we must educate people as to the proper training and welfare of

children, and teach them how to keep their houses clean and free from

diseases. I could not begin to tell you all the subjects Social Service

includes."

"It sartinly must cover a heap of ground," Abner mused, as he flicked

Jerry gently with the whip. "But does it tell ye how to cook, darn

socks, sew on buttons, an' do sich ordinary household work?"

"Why, no!" and Jess looked her surprise. "It's not supposed to include

such things."

"H'm, is that so? Well, it seems to me that's the kind of social reform

we need. Most of the gals these days tweedle-dee at the pianner, gass

about art, study the fashion magazines, an' read the new novels, but as

fer cookin', sewin', an' darnin', why, they know no more about sich

things than a cat knows about a thrashin' machine."

"But I know, daddy," Jess reminded. "Mother taught me, you remember,

before I left home."

"Sure, she did, an' she larnt ye well, too. She laid the timbers all

right, keel, kilson, an' all. But, skiddy-me-shins, if ye'r goin' to

carry all that Social Service sail, ye'll be a mighty different craft

from what ye'r mother planned. Ye sartinly won't do fer ordinary home

waters, let me tell ye that. Ye'll need a darn more sea room than kin

be found at Ash Pint."

"Certainly, daddy, that's just it. I intend to go to some big city

where the needs are great, and help to carry on social reform work."

"Ye do!" Abner's hands dropped limp upon his knees, and a troubled

expression overspread his wrinkled face. The merry twinkle left his

eyes, and the wrinkles upon his bronzed forehead seemed to deepen.

"Why, I thought ye was a-goin' to stay home, Jess," he at length

continued. "Ye'r ma an' me was settin' great store upon ye'r comin'

back, an' castin' anchor at Ash Pint."

"I couldn't think of doing that, daddy. And besides, you have already

said that I am not fitted for home waters, didn't you? I certainly do

need more sea room."

"But couldn't ye take a reef or two in ye'r sail, Jess? There's

considerable social work to be done right here, so why not cruise around

a while in this parish? I guess ye'll find enough to keep ye busy fer a

year or two at least."

"Why, what can I do, daddy?"

"Well, I can't recall all the needs. But there's Glucom, fer instance.

It's right handy, an' it needs its back yards cleaned up, an' other

things attended to; it sartinly does. Ye might start with Ikey Dimock,

an' Lawyer Rackshaw, an' I think ye'd find enough in their cellars an'

basements to occupy ye fer a long time."

"Why, daddy, I didn't know their places needed looking after. Their

wives are leaders of Glucom society, and surely conditions are not as

bad as you make out."

"I'm not sayin' anythin' about their wives, fer I've learned since

marryin' ye'r ma to speak very keerful about women. I was merely

referrin' to the men. But, remember, society ain't allus what it seems,

fer many a frog kicks up a big fuss an' holler on a rotten log, an'

roosters often crow the loudest on a manure heap. I guess if ye knew as

much as I do about the way Ikey Dimock an' Lawyer Rackshaw, to say

nuthin' of others, made their money ye'd find that I'm not fer astray.

G'long, Jerry."

"But what could I do with such people, daddy? They would resent any

interference on my part. They are leaders of society, you know. We

work among a different class of people."

"Yes, I suppose so. But ye told me that Social Service work includes

the liquor traffic, gamblin', graft, an' sich things, so that's why I

mentioned Glucom. It's sartinly a fine field fer operations."

"I shall think it over, daddy," and Jess gave a deep sigh. Abner's eyes

twinkled, and he glanced toward his daughter.

"S'pose ye try ye'r hand at home, Jess," he suggested.

"In what way?"

"Oh, upon me an' ye'r ma. We need a little reformin', an' the old house

wants to be made a darn sight more sanitary than it is."

"Why, what do you mean?" Jess asked in surprise.

"Well, ye see, me an' ye'r ma haven't been sproutin' any extry

angel-wings since ye left home, Jess. We've been havin' too much of

each other's company, I guess, an' ye know that ye git tired even of the

best candy an' chocolates if ye have too much of 'em. Then, we've been

livin' in the kitchen, eatin' an' settin' there. We never use the

dinin'-room, an' as fer the parlor, well, the blinds have been down fer

so long that I have the creeps whenever I go into that room. No, it

ain't sanitary. The house needs more sunshine; a cheery voice now an'

then, an' some music on that old pianner once in a while. I tell ye the

state of affairs at our house ain't nat'ral. A funeral is necessary

occasionally, I s'pose, but ye'd think we was havin' a funeral at our

house every day of the week. Yes, Jess, we need ye'r social reform work

right at home as much as anywheres else. Hello! What's this?"

They had rounded the bend in the road when they saw an elderly man

approaching, carrying with difficulty a rough box upon his shoulder.

"Why, it's Zeb Burns!" Abner exclaimed. "What in the world is he up to

now? Hello, Zeb," he accosted, as he pulled up his horse. "Not movin',

are ye?"

"What de ye think I'm doin', then?" was the retort. "Do I look as if

I've been settin' under the shade of an apple tree all the mornin'?"

Zeb thumped the box down upon the ground, pulled forth a big red

pocket-handkerchief, and mopped his perspiring face. As the box touched

mother earth, a piercing squeal sounded forth, followed by several

protesting grunts.

"Oh, it's a pig ye've got!" and Abner leaned over to obtain a better

view. "One of the Chosen Tribes, I s'pose, ha, ha."

"No, it's not; it's the devil in pig's clothin'; that's what it is.

It's been cussin' an' squealin' an' kickin' ever since I started from

home. Guess it must be one of your ancient ancestors, Abner, shut up in

this critter, by the way it acts."

"Where did ye git the thing, anyway?" Abner enquired. "Didn't raise it,

did ye?"

"It's a Society pig, ye see," was the reply. "I only got it yesterday,

an' sold it at once to Joe Sanders. That's where I'm takin' it now."

"Must be some class to that animal, Zeb. Society pig, eh? I s'pose it

has all the marks of high life?"

"It ought to have. It was riz by the Agricultural Society, and they

generally turn out good stuff. But this darn critter is certainly an

exception by the way it acts."

"Why don't ye try Social Service methods on it, then?"

"Social Service methods!" Zeb exclaimed in surprise.

"Sure. Reform the thing; elevate it, of course."

"Elevate the devil!" was the disgusted retort.

"That's what Social Service is fer, though; to elevate the divil,

accordin' to what Jess has been tellin' me."

"But, de ye think ye could elevate a pig?" Zeb savagely asked.

"Don't know. Never tried, except to elevate it by the hind legs after

it was killed. But Social Service might work wonders with it, though.

As it is a Society pig, it's had a good start, so the rest should be

easy."

"Ump!" Zeb snorted. "All the Social Service methods in the world

couldn't do more than elevate a pig into a hog."

"Ho, ho, I guess ye'r right, Zeb. G'long, Jerry."

Abner emitted several chuckles as they moved leisurely along the road.

Once he turned and looked back just as Zeb was endeavoring to balance

the box again upon his shoulder.

"Ho, ho," he laughed, "Zeb hit it that time, all right. Ye surely can't

change a pig into anythin' but a hog, even though it is society bred."

"Wasn't it funny, though?" Jess commented.

"What; the pig?"

"Oh, no. But what Zeb said, and the way he looked. Is he as much

interested as ever in the Lost Tribes?"

"Sure. Why, he yangs about it every time we meet. We had a regular

set-to one day this week."

"But he didn't say a word about it this morning, daddy."

"Neither he did, come to think of it. He had the pig on the brain;

that's why. My, that's a good one on Lost Tribes, an' I won't fergit it

next time I see him. To think of Zeb bein' side-tracked by a pig!

Hello! There's ye'r ma comin' to meet us, blamed if she ain't. Guess she

got tired waitin'. Gid-dap, Jerry."

*CHAPTER IV*

*UNDER-PINNIN'*

Reform work at home began sooner than Abner expected, and in a manner

not altogether to his liking. When Jess announced that Isabel Rivers,

her special friend at the Seminary, was to pay her a visit, Mrs. Andrews

at once decided that the house must be thoroughly cleaned. Abner

groaned inwardly as he listened to what would have to be done the next

few days.

"We must have everything spotless," his wife declared. "It would not do

for Belle Rivers to see a speck of dust around the house. I can hardly

believe it true that she is coming, and her the daughter of Andrew

Rivers, the famous, what do they call him, Jess?"

"Attorney General," was the reply.

"Strange she'd want to come here," Abner mused, as he puffed at his

after-dinner pipe. "She's society bred, like Lost Tribes' pig, an' I

guess she'll find it mighty dull. She won't have much chance to put on

airs at Ash Pint."

"Belle's not that kind," Jess explained, "as I have told you in my

letters. She is fond of quiet life and country ways. We are both

greatly interested in Social Service work, and we have planned to

continue our studies while she is with me. You will both like her, I am

sure."

"It's a wonder her parents don't want her, Joss."

"She has only her father now, and he will be away from home for several

weeks this summer. Belle is all he has, and she is the apple of his

eye. Mrs. Rivers died last year, and poor Belle misses her so much.

She was so grateful when I asked her to visit us."

"Well, I s'pose we kin stand her fer a while," and Abner gave a sigh of

resignation. "But, remember, ye mustn't expect me to be harnessed up in

Sunday duds an' white collar every day. An' I don't want Social Service

flung at my head every time I turn around."

Actual work began upon the parlor the very next day, and by noon the

room had the appearance of having been struck by a cyclone. Blinds,

curtains, and pictures were taken down; chairs and tables were piled out

upon the verandah; mats were spread upon the grass, and the carpet hung

upon the clothes-line. The old-fashioned piano, on account of its size,

was the only thing left, and stood forlornly in its place, thickly

covered with old copies of _The Family Herald and Weekly Star_.

"That sartinly is a great paper," Abner mused, as he stood in the middle

of the room viewing the effect. "It's useful fer most anythin', as I

told Sam Dobbins only yesterday, when he was yangin' about _The Live

Wire_."

"What was he saying about it?" Mrs. Andrews unexpectedly asked.

"Oh, nuthin', nuthin' perticular, except that once it a fine account of

his great-grandmother's funeral, that's all. Anythin' else ye want me

to do, Tildy?"

"Certainly. You might as well beat that carpet. It's just full of

dust."

For over half an hour Abner whacked away at the carpet, pausing

occasionally to sneeze and to wipe his perspiring face.

"Ugh!" he groaned, during one of these resting spells. "If this is

Social Service work, then may the Lord help us!"

"You wanted to begin at home, though, didn't you, daddy?" Jess

laughingly asked, as she paused in the act of shaking a rug.

"I know I did; fool that I was. But, look here, when anythin' has been

dead, laid out, an' buried as long as that parlor has, it's a darn

mistake to bring it to life agin."

"But think how clean, fresh and sweet the room will be when we get

done," Jess reminded.

"Umph! De ye think I kin ever git this thing clean, fresh an' sweet?"

and Abner gave the wobbly carpet a savage bang. "Look at that dust,

now. The more I thump the thicker it gits. What's the use of carpets,

anyway, I'd like to know?"

After dinner Abner lighted his pipe, and picked up his old straw hat.

"Guess I'll work at them pertaters this afternoon, Tildy," he announced.

"They're mighty weedy an' need hoein'. I s'pose you an' Jess kin finish

that room, eh?"

"Indeed we can't," his wife replied. "The ceiling has to be whitened,

and that is a man's job. I've got to wash those curtains, and do a

hundred other things. The potatoes have gone so long already that I

guess another day won't do them any harm. You'll find the whitening in

a bag on the woodhouse shelf, and the brush is hanging on the wall."

Abner made no reply but strolled off to the woodhouse softly humming,

"When Bill Larkins made his money." Mrs. Andrews and Jess went on with

their work, one washing the curtains; the other shaking mats and

polishing the chairs upon the verandah. About an hour passed, and then

from the parlor came a hair-raising yell, followed immediately by a

thump. Jess and her mother nearly collided as they rushed into the

room, where they saw Abner sitting upon the floor, his clothes covered

with whitening.

"For pity sakes! what is the matter now?" his wife demanded. "Did you

fall?"

"No, I didn't fall, as ye kin see," was the reply. "The darn old floor

riz up an' hit me, that's all. Ugh!" he groaned.

"Where are you hurt, daddy?" Jess asked.

"Where am I hurt?" and Abner glared at his daughter. "Where de ye think

I'm hurt? Where do I look as if I'm hurt; on me head?"

"I should say on your face, by the look of it," his wife retorted. "I

thought you had more sense than to put that chair upon such a rickety

box. You might have broken your neck. What were you doing up there,

anyway?"

"Follerin' Social Service methods; that's all, Tildy."

"Social Service methods! Why, what do you mean?"

"Ask Jess; she understands. It's an elevatin' process, ye see. I was

jist elevatin' myself to put some plaster on that hole in the ceilin',

when me under-pinnin' gave way. Did ye learn anythin' about the

under-pinnin' at the Seminary, Jess?"

"Not that I know of, daddy."

"Ye didn't! Well, that's queer. What was the use of ye'r studyin'

Social Service if ye didn't learn nuthin' about under-pinnin'."

"I don't know what it is, daddy."

"Ye don't! Why, I thought everybody knew that under-pinnin' is what

hold's things up."

"Oh, I see. You mean the foundation, or groundwork, so to speak."

"Well, them may be the highfalutin' names, but I'm used to

under-pinnin'. It comes more natural."

"But what has that to do with Social Service?"

"A darn sight, I should say. Ye can't do nuthin' if the under-pinnin'

ain't right, any more'n I could stand fer long on that chair with the

rickety box underneath. Lost Tribes was right when he said ye can't

elevate a pig into nuthin' more'n a hog. Ye'd better allus be sure of

ye'r under-pinnin', Jess, before ye begin any elevatin' process. Now,

there's Ikey Dimock, fer instance. If he hasn't a----"

"What's all this nonsense about, anyway?" Mrs. Andrews interrupted.

"We'll never get through with this room if you two keep talking about

'Social Service' and 'Under-pinnin' all the time."

"Well, I'm through fer the present, Tildy," Abner declared. "Guess I'll

go outside fer a while an' shake off this Social Service dose. Jist

leave the ceilin'; I'll finish it later."

He shuffled stiffly out of the room, and made his way to a pile of wood

a short distance from the house. He started to sit down upon a block

but, suddenly changing his mind, he leaned against the clothes-line post

instead. Pulling out a plug of tobacco and a knife, he had just whittled

off several slices when an auto came in sight, and stopped in front of

the house. A young man, neatly dressed, alighted and, walking briskly

into the yard, came over to where Abner was standing.

"Is the boss in?" he enquired.

"Yes, she was a few minutes ago."

"Whew! Hen rule, eh?"

"Seems so. Like to see her?"

"Not on your life. I want to see the old man. Is he around?"

"Guess he'll be around soon. Met with an accident ye see."

"That's too bad. Serious?"

"Pretty bad. His under-pinnin' gave way. Total collapse."

"My, my! Sudden?"

"Very. Any message?"

"You work for him, I suppose?"

"I sartinly do."

"Is he a good boss?"

"Didn't ye ever meet him?"

"No, never saw him. But I believe he's fixed all right by the way he

forked over for that Orphan Home Slapped down a cool thousand at the

first bang. The firm sent me out to try to sell him an auto. Do you

think he wants one?"

"Sure; he wants one bad."

"He does? When do you suppose I could see him? He's a queer one, I

understand."

"Yes, a regular divil when he gits goin'. Shoots at sight."

"You don't say so! Now, come to think of it, I did hear that he's a

little touched in the head. Has strange notions of living a long time

ago. Is that so?"

"Guess ye'r right. The old feller's not altogether himself. He's lived

so many lives that he often gits mixed up an' thinks he's old man Astor,

Julius Caesar, or some other notable. He's not too bad then, but when

he imagines he's one of them old pirates, ye'd better watch out. He's a

holy terror, an' nuthin' will stop him when he gits on the rampage."

"Did he ever hurt you?" the young man anxiously asked.

"Oh, no. Him an' me are great chums. He's never shot at me yit. We're

too good friends fer that. I'm his keeper, ye see, an' so he looks up

to me fer most everything."

"What! Is he as bad as all that? Does he really need a keeper?"

"Sure. Why, I'm the only one who kin manage him, next to his wife. He

allus minds me no matter how bad he is. He ginerally does everythin' I

say."

"Well, that's interesting. I believe you're just the man I want. I

suppose he'd buy a car if you advised him to do so?"

"Sure thing."

"That's great. Now, look here, if you'll speak a good word for me, I'll

make it worth your while. And, say, here's something on account to

prove that I mean business."

The young man thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth a crisp

bill, and handed it to Abner. "Don't say a word about this little

transaction," he warned. "And you'll let me know when your boss is

ready to buy, won't you?"

"Sure, sure; I'll let ye know. I'll put ye next to the old feller."

"That's good. Don't forget."

"Oh, I'll not fergit, not on ye'r life."

"Well, so long," and the salesman held out his hand. "It's a bargain,

remember, and more to come when the car is bought."

As the young man started to leave, Jess came around the corner of the

house carrying a rug, which she placed upon the clothes-line. At first

she did not notice the two men, but stood for a few seconds looking down

over the fields out upon the river. As she turned to re-enter the house

by the back door, she espied the men, especially the stranger. In her

brief glance she noted what a wretched object her father presented, with

his old lime-bespattered clothes, by the side of the immaculately

dressed young man. The latter noted the flush which mantled her face,

and attributed it to shyness.

"Gee whiz!" he exclaimed, after Jess had entered the house. "Where did

she drop from?"

"S-sh," Abner warned. "She's the old man's daughter; a chip of the same

block."

"She is! Gad, she's a beaut."

"Yes, she's a trim craft, poor gal!" Here he heaved a deep sigh, which

the stranger was not slow to notice.

"Why, what's wrong with her?" the young man enquired.

"Touched here, like her dad," and Abner placed the forefinger of his

right hand to his head.

"You don't say so! My, my, that's too bad! Inherited, I suppose?"

"Partly. She's got Social Service on the brain, ye see. But, there,

ye'd better go now. She was quite excited when she spotted you, an' if

ye stay too long she might have a fit. Doesn't take much to set her

off, poor thing."

Abner watched the salesman as he walked out of the yard, boarded his

car, and set off down the road. Then his solemn face relaxed, and the

sad expression fled from his eyes. The skin on his cheeks and under his

eyes became suddenly corrugated, and his mouth expanded to a dangerous

degree. His body shook, and he emitted a series of half-suppressed

chuckles of merriment. He next unfolded the bill he was still holding

in his hand, and looked at it.

"Whew! it's a ten-spot!" he exclaimed. "An' that guy thought he'd bribe

me with this, did he? He wanted me to put him next to the old feller.

So that's the way he works his game, eh? Heard I'm well fixed, too, an'

was sent to sell me a car. A 'queer one,' an' a 'little touched in the

head,' ho, ho! But mebbe he'll find the old feller's not so daft after

all, an' that Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, is afflicted with a different

kind of a touch. That's what he will learn, skiddy-me-shins, if he

won't."

*CHAPTER V*

*PLAIN FACTS*

The morning sun struggled through the dust-covered window, and fell

aslant the pine board which Zebedee Burns was carefully planing. It was

a small workroom, littered with boards, tools, and shavings. Adjoining

was the blacksmith shop, for Zebedee was a handy man, and combined

carpentering with the smith-trade, besides tending his garden. He was

seldom rushed with business, and found time to do extra work, such as

trading in "Society" pigs.

He had just finished planing the board, and was measuring it with his

two-foot rule when a form darkened the doorway.

"Mornin', Zeb," was the cheery greeting.

"Mornin', Abner," was the laconic reply.

"Busy, I see. Makin' a cage fer ye'r society pig, I s'pose," Abner

bantered, as he sat down upon the tool-chest.

Zebedee deigned no reply, but went on with his work. He sawed a few

inches off the planed board, laid it carefully aside and picked up

another. Abner was surprised at his unusual manner, and studied his

face most intently.

"What's wrong, Zeb?" he at length enquired. "Ye look as if ye'd been to

a funeral. Haven't lost one of the Chosen Tribes, have ye?"

"Quit ye'r foolin', Abner," was the chiding reply. "I haven't been to

any funeral, though I expect to be at one to-morrow."

"Ye do!" and Abner's eyes grew suddenly big. "Who's dead?"

"Widder Denton's little boy."

"Whew! Ye don't tell! Never heard a word about it. When did he die?"

"Yesterday. I'm makin' his coffin now."

"Ye are, eh? Somewhat out of ye'r line, isn't it? I thought the

undertaker in town allus attended to sich affairs."

"He does if there's any money in it. But this is a different case.

Widder Denton's too poor to buy a casket, so that's why I've tackled the

job. Guess there'll be more to make fer the same family belong long, if

I'm not mistaken."

"What! Diphtheria?"

"No; starvation."

"Holy smoke! Ye don't say so! Didn't know it's as bad as that."

"Well, it is. That poor widder has been workin' so hard to keep her

family that she's gone under. I wouldn't be surprised if it's her

coffin I'll have to make next."

"Ye don't tell! Why, I thought she got money from the company when her

husband was killed."

"H'm, Lawyer Rackshaw got most of it, accordin' to what she told me only

yesterday."

"He did! The skunk! An' him smokin' half a dozen ten-cent cigars every

day. It's a wonder she never squealed on him."

"Oh, that's jist like her. She wouldn't have told me yesterday if I

hadn't pumped it out of her. She's a game one, all right. But I do

pity the poor little kids. I don't know what's to become of them."

"How many are there?"

"Five, I guess. The little chap who died was the youngest, an' he was

only three."

"My, my!" Abner sighed, while an expression of sincere sympathy came

into his eyes. "What de ye s'pose kin be done fer 'em?"

"Don't know, unless we kin git them into that Orphan Home."

"What Home?" Abner asked in surprise.

"Why, you ought to know," and Zeb looked up from his work. "You gave a

thousand dollars to it, didn't ye?"

"A thousand be hanged! I didn't give a red cent."

"So I thought. Jist hold these boards together, will ye?"

Abner at once obeyed, and after Zeb had driven in two nails, he

straightened himself up, and looked at his companion.

"You never intended to give a thousand to that Home, did ye?" he asked.

"Sure. What de ye think I am? A fool?"

"Not altogether, but next door to one, I should say."

"Ye've got a darn lot of gall," Abner retorted. "Ye must have inherited

it from one of the Lost Tribes, didn't ye?"

"Never mind the Lost Tribes now, Abner. You know what I say is true.

You're no more able to give a thousand dollars to that Home than I am to

buy out the whole of Glucom. How in the world de ye expect to git out

of the scrape, anyway? Ye'll be the laughin'-stock of everyone."

"Never you mind, Zeb, how I'll git out of it. I'll square up all right,

so ye needn't bust any button off about it. I know a wrinkle or two."

"Ye'll have to git a hustle on, then, if them Denton kids are to be

helped."

Abner took three or four steps across the room, and then stopped and

looked out of the door. Presently he turned and watched Zebedee for a

few seconds.

"How much de ye expect to git fer that job?" he suddenly asked.

"Jist as much as you'd expect, an' that's nuthin'," was the quick reply.

Abner's right hand was now in his trousers pocket, firmly gripping the

ten dollar bill which had been given to him by the agent. Then he drew

it forth, and flung it upon the work-bench.

"Take that, Zeb, an' give it to Widder Denton," he ordered. "It's been

burnin' me pocket until me skin is scorched. There, don't ask me where

I got it," he added, as Zeb started to speak. "I've got enough lies

scratched down aginst me already. But I do feel like havin' a good

fight."

"Fight! What de ye want to fight fer?" Zeb asked in astonishment.

"'Cause I'm ugly, that's why. The sight of that ten-spot makes me want

to hit somebody."

"Well, ye'd better git out of this if that's the way ye feel. I've no

inclination or time to fight to-day."

"An' ye don't want a scrap over the Ten Lost Tribes? I've given ye

plenty of chances. Now, look, Zeb, who was the

great-great-great-grandfather of the man who lost the Ten Tribes in the

first place? Kin ye tell me that?"

Such a question in the past had always stirred Zebedee to his inmost

depths. But now, instead of launching forth in defence of his pet

theory, he leaned against the work-bench, folded his arms, and faced his

visitor.

"Abner," he began, "I've been thinkin'."

"Well, that's encouragin'," was the reply. "A bit out of the ordinary,

eh? I thought there was somethin' wrong with ye."

"Yes, I've been thinkin'," Zeb repeated, "an' if you'd do the same

occasionally, Abner, it might do ye a world of good."

"H'm, ye needn't judge all ye'r neighbors' pigs by ye'r own," was the

retort.

"I'm not, Abner. I'm only judgin' by solid facts. Now, see here. You

an' me have been makin' fools of ourselves by always squabblin' over

things of little real value. I yanged about the Lost Tribes, an' you

yanged about how many lives you've lived."

"They're mighty interestin', though," Abner remarked.

"I know they are, an' there's no harm in discussin' them once in a

while. But it don't seem altogether right fer two men like you an' me

to spend so much time over sich things, an' pay little or no heed to

what takes place right under our noses."

"Guess there's not much that escapes us, Zeb, is there?"

"What about that Denton family, then?"

"But we thought they was well fixed."

"Did we ever think much about them, anyway, Abner?"

"Guess ye'r right, Zeb. We didn't."

"We certainly didn't, an' that's what's worrin' me. Why, when I looked

at that poor little dead boy last night, an' talked to the widder, an'

saw the pinched faces of her children, I felt small enough to crawl

through a knot-hole."

"Sure, ye did," Abner agreed. "I've felt that way meself, 'specially

when Tildy was after me. It's a mighty creepy feelin', isn't it?"

"Indeed it is, an' more so when ye'r conscience is lashin' ye like a

thousand divils. I had a hard time to git to sleep last night, fer the

picture of the Great Judgment riz right up before me. I heard the Lord

a-sayin', 'Zeb Burns, them Denton kids was hungry an' ye gave them

nuthin' to eat; they was thirsty an' ye never gave them any fresh milk;

they was almost naked an' ye didn't give them any clothes. If ye had

done them things that little Denton boy wouldn't have died.' That's

what I thought He said, an' when I went to sleep I dreamed that I was

bein' sent to the left hand right into hell fire. It gave me sich a

scare that I jumped out of bed with a yell, an' my wife thought I was

crazy. I tell ye it was an awful experience."

Zebedee pulled out a big red handkerchief, and mopped his brow.

"My! I git all het up when I think of it," he panted.

Abner made no immediate reply, but stood very still with his eyes fixed

intently upon the floor.

"Guess I'll go now," he at length announced.

"What are ye workin' at these days?" Zeb asked.

"Pertaters; an' a mighty pesky job it is. Full of weeds."

"Why, I thought ye had them all done."

"So I would if it hadn't been fer house-cleanin'."

"House-cleanin'!"

"Sure. House so spick an' span that I kin hardly step or set anywheres,

so I generally roost on the wood-box. Well, s'long. I must be off."

*CHAPTER VI*

*A FLEA IN THE EAR*

Abner was unusually silent at dinner and did not seem to notice the

neatly set table, nor the fresh wild flowers artistically arranged in

the little vase in the centre. He glanced occasionally at his daughter

who was sitting opposite, and his eyes shone with pride. He would have

been less than human had his heart not thrilled at the vision before

him. Jess was in her brightest mood. Her face glowed with abounding

health, and her dark eyes beamed with animation as she talked with her

mother about her plans for the future, and of the approaching visit of

Isabel Rivers. Mrs. Andrews, too, was in excellent spirits, for the

finishing touches had been given to the house that morning, and

everything was in readiness for the visitor. She nevertheless noted her

husband's preoccupied air, and wondered what was troubling him.

When dinner was over Abner pushed back his chair, and gave a deep sigh.

"What's the matter with you, Abner?" his wife asked. "You don't seem to

be yourself to-day. You're not sick, I hope."

"Do I look sick, Tildy?"

"Well, no, judging by the dinner you ate. But you act like a sick man

for all that. Maybe it's your liver."

"No, it ain't me liver; it's me heart. That's what's the matter."

"Your heart!" Jess exclaimed. "Why, daddy, I didn't know you had heart

trouble."

"Ye didn't, eh? Well, I had it once, jist about the time I asked ye'r

mother to marry me. It was a mighty bad dose."

"H'm, you soon got over it," Mrs. Andrews retorted.

"I sure did, Tildy. Ye'r right there. It didn't take long after we got

hitched, an' I thought I'd never have another attack."

"What brought it on now, for pity sakes, Abner? It can't be a woman

this time."

"It sartinly is."

"A woman!"

"Yes, a woman; a livin' female woman, an' a widder at that."

"Good gracious, Abner! A widow! What do you mean, anyway?"

"Jist what I said; a widder, an' she's the one who's given me the heart

kink this time."

At these words a startled look came into Jess's eyes, and her face grew

suddenly pale. But Mrs. Andrews showed no signs of uneasiness. She

knew her husband too well to be shocked at anything he might say or do.

"Well," she remarked, "whoever that widow is, she's welcome to all the

heart you've got, Abner. If she can find it, then it's more than I

can."

"Yes, it's a widder," Abner continued, unheeding his wife's sarcasm,

"an' she's got five kids, an' they're worrin' me a lot."

"I should say they would, Abner. You'll have more than one kink in your

heart if you undertake to handle such a brood. When do you expect to

take charge of your new family?"

"Take charge! Did I say anything about takin' charge?" and Abner glared

at his wife. "I only said me heart aches fer 'em, an' it sartinly does,

fer they're starvin'."

"Starving!" Jess exclaimed. "Who are they, anyway?"

"Widder Denton an' her brood; that's who they are. Her little boy died

yesterday, an' Lost Tribes is makin' a coffin fer him."

"Oh, daddy, I hadn't any idea there was such need so near home, did

you?"

"I sure didn't. But it's Gospel truth. Widder's sick, an' kids

starvin'."

"Isn't it awful!" and Jess clasped her hands before her. "Can't

anything be done for them? The children should be looked after at once,

and someone should stay with Mrs. Denton."

"Oh, I guess the neighbors'll attend to that fer a while. Zeb'll find

out, no doubt."

"Isn't the Orphan Home ready yet, daddy?"

"What Orphan Home?" and Abner looked keenly into his daughter's face.

"What have ye heard about it?"

"Nothing much, only I thought they were building one at Glucom. There

was some talk about it, wasn't there?"

"Talk! Sure there was talk. They've been talkin' about it fer years,

but I guess that's as fer as it'll go. But there, I must git at them

pertaters."

Abner gave a fleeting glance at his wife, picked up his hat and left the

room.

"What is the matter with, daddy?" Jess asked, after her father had gone.

"In what way?" Mrs. Andrews enquired.

"I hardly know, except that he seems strange at times. The day I came

home he got so excited when I picked up a copy of _The Live Wire_ which

had dropped from his pocket."

"He did! What did he say?"

"He shouted at me and made me give it back to him at once. He said it

was dangerous, and that if I looked at it there would be a terrible

explosion. I told him there must be something in it that he did not

want me to see, and he did not deny it. Have you seen it, mother?"

"No, he didn't say anything to me about it. I never knew that he

brought the paper home. I wonder where he put it."

Mrs. Andrews believed that she knew the cause of her husband's

excitement over _The Live Wire_, and what it contained. But she felt

annoyed that he had not shown it to her. Was there something in it that

he did not wish her to see? she asked herself. The more she thought

about it the more determined she became to find out where Abner had

hidden the paper. She said nothing, however, to Jess about it, but

discreetly changed the subject, and began to talk about Widow Denton and

her troubles.

While the women thus lingered at the table and talked, Abner was busy in

his potato patch back of the barn. The weeds were thick and stubborn,

but he seemed to take a special delight in tearing them out of the

ground. "Give me somethin' to shake me timbers an' I kin work like the

divil," he had often said. "I kin never accomplish as much in hayin'

time as when a thunderstorm is racin' down the valley. I'm somethin'

like me old Flyin' Scud. When it was calm she wasn't worth her salt,

but let a gale hit her, an' my! how she'd gather her skirts an' run."

Seldom had Abner such thoughts to agitate his mind as on this fine warm

afternoon. He was deeply concerned about the Denton affair, and this

naturally turned his attention to the proposed Orphan Home. He was fully

aware that this case of destitution would revive a greater interest in

the building of the institution, and that he might be called upon at any

moment for the thousand dollars he had offered. How he was to raise

that amount he had not the slightest idea, and he realized that he had

made a fool of himself. If he failed to make good, he would be the

laughing-stock of all, and he would be ashamed to be seen again on the

streets of Glucom.

Added to this worry was the thought of Jess leaving home. He recalled

what she had said that morning on the way from the station, as well as

her recent conversation at the dinner table. That she was determined to

go in a few weeks seemed certain, and Abner groaned inwardly when he

thought of the dreariness of the house without her exhilarating

presence.

"Hang that Seminary!" he muttered. "I wish to goodness Jess had never

seen the place. Social Service! Progress! Uplift! Umph! I wouldn't

mind gals studyin' sich things if they'd use common sense. But to

galivant off to elevate people in big cities instead of stayin' home

where they kin be of some real use, is what makes me hot."

Abner had paused in his work and was leaning upon his hoe. He was

gazing thoughtfully out over the field, toward the main highway. And,

as he looked, a car containing one man came suddenly into sight, and

drew up by the side of the road. Then a man alighted and walked briskly

across the field.

"It's Ikey Dimock, skiddy-me-shins, if it ain't!" Abner exclaimed.

"What in the world kin the critter want of me! I don't want to see him,

nor anyone of his brood."

Isaac Dimock was a little man, but what he lacked in size he tried to

make up in pompousness. "It seems to me," Abner once said, "that the

Lord got somehow mixed up when he was makin' Ikey Dimock. It is sartin'

sure, judgin' from Ikey's ears and brains, that he intended him to be a

jackass. But He must have changed his mind, an' finished him up as a

man, but a mighty poor job He made of it. It's quite clear that Ikey

stopped growin' too soon. The only pity is that he ever grew at all."

Between these two men there had never been any love lost. Abner

despised Isaac for his meanness, underhandedness, and pompousness, while

Isaac hated Abner for his sharp tongue and biting sarcasm. They seldom

met without a wordy battle of one kind or another. They never came to

blows, as the hardware merchant had considerable respect for the

farmer's great strength and big fists, one of which, on a certain

memorable occasion, had been doubled up dangerously near his stub of a

nose.

But Isaac seemed to have forgotten and forgiven all animosities as he

now drew near. His face was contorted with a smile, such as a wolf

might assume when about to pounce upon a lamb.

"How are you, Abner?" he accosted. "Fine day this."

"Why, so it is," and Abner gazed around in apparent astonishment, "I

hadn't thought about it before. It's good of ye to come an' tell me."

"You work too hard," the visitor replied, unheeding the sarcasm. "You

don't take time to notice the beautiful things around you."

"H'm," Abner grunted. "It takes all my spare minutes tryin' to wring a

livin' out of this darn place. Have to keep me nose to the ground most

of the time."

"I should say so," and Isaac cast his eyes around until they rested upon

the big gravel hill to his right. "Pretty light ground, eh?"

"Light! Should say it is. Why, it's so light I have to keep the place

anchored or it 'ud go up like a balloon."

"Ha, ha, it certainly must be light. Rather dangerous, isn't it?"

"Oh, I'm not the least bit afraid of what old Mother Nature does. She's

pretty reliable, an' doesn't do any kinky tricks. Ye kin ginerally

depend upon her. But it's human nature on two legs that I'm suspicious

of."

Isaac cast a swift glance at the farmer in an effort to interpret the

meaning of his words. But Abner's face was perfectly placid as he

leaned upon his hoe and surveyed his garden.

"Why are you suspicious of human nature?" Isaac enquired.

"'Cause it's allus tryin' to undermine one, that's why. Now look here,

I work this place, plant seeds, fight frost, bugs, cutworms, crows, an'

dear knows what all. Then I take me produce to town, an' give it away.

Yes, actually give it away, fer I don't make enough profit to keep a

shirt on a flea. But when them storekeepers sell the stuff which caused

me so much work an' anxiety they make big profits. They call it

bizness; but I call it robbery. Is it any wonder that I'm suspicious of

human nature on two legs?"

"It certainly is discouraging," Isaac blandly purred. He was thinking of

his own big profits in hardware. "It is a wonder you don't give up

farming," he continued. "Why not try something else?"

"I'm goin' to give it up," Abner declared.

"You are! Well, it's fortunate that I came to see you to-day."

"Why?"

"Because I want to buy your place."

"Buy my place!" Abner exclaimed. "What de ya want this place fer, I'd

like to know?"

"For the situation. I need a place where I can bring my family during

the summer, and this farm will suit us fine. The view is excellent, and

there is a good beach for boating and bathing. How much do you want for

it?"

"I didn't say I was goin' to sell, did I?" Abner roared.

"But you just told me you are going to give up farming, didn't you?"

"Sure, I did. But that doesn't mean I want to sell. I'm goin' to give

up farmin' some day, an' you're goin' to give up the hardware bizness,

too. But I shall keep the place fer the sake of the situation. I'll

want it a few hundred years from now, fer I don't expect to light upon a

nicer spot."

Isaac's eyes opened wide with amazement. He gave a slight start and

looked keenly at Abner.

"Did you say 'a few hundred years?'" he asked.

"That's jist what I said. But it may be more, fer I can't tell how long

it will take me to develop."

"Develop!"

"Sure. Ye see, I've been so long reachin' the Abner Andrews stage that

I can't jist tell when I'll arrive."

"Arrive! Arrive where?"

"At the angel stage where I kin live without eatin' an' workin'. It's

necessary fer a man to be sich a bein' to live on a place like this.

That's what old Parson Shaw said after he'd been at Plunkerville fer

several years."

"So you expect to be an angel, do you?" Isaac queried, while his mouth

expanded into a grin.

"I'm hopin' that way, providin' I don't git any set-back, which would

delay me fer a few hundred years or so."

"Won't it be rather lonesome living here all by yourself?" Isaac

bantered. "How will you occupy your time?"

"Oh, I'm not worrin' about that. I'll have plenty to do."'

"You will! Along what line?"

"Lookin' after poultry; 'specially geese."

"Geese!"

"Yes, that's what I'll be doin' judgin' from present indications. Guess

most of the folks in Glucom will have reached the goose stage by that

time, if I'm not much mistaken. Most likely you'll be there, too, Ikey,

though your pin-feathers won't be very tender. You'll surely be an old

goose by that time."

This was more than Isaac could stand. His face reddened, and his bland

smile departed.

"What do you mean by insulting me?" he demanded. "You owe me an apology

for those words."

"Ye'r mistaken there, Ikey. It's the geese I should apologize to. I

didn't mean to insult them poor critters."

"You're no gentleman," Isaac shouted, now fully aroused. "You're

nothing but an ignorant clown."

"Yes, I reckon I am. But I'll improve by the time I'm ready to keep

geese. Ye'll hardly know me then. But I'll know you, Ikey, fer no one

could ever mistake that nose, even when it's changed into a goose's

bill. There'll be lots of grubs and worms fer ye to feed on by the looks

of things now."

"You impudent cur!" Isaac roared. "I didn't come here to be insulted,

but to have a quiet talk about buying your place."

"No one asked ye to come, Ikey Dimock, an' the sooner ye go the better.

Ye've insulted me over an' over agin, an' thought it was all right. But

two kin play at that game, an' by the jumpin'-frog I've a good mind to

twist ye'r measley neck."

So fierce did Abner look that Isaac retreated a few steps.

"Oh, don't git scared," Abner laughed. "I'll not hurt ye. But next

time ye come to buy this place, bring ye'r shot-gun along. I don't like

to kill a man without givin' him a chance to defend himself."

"I'll bring a constable, that's who I'll bring."

"All right, bring the hull police force if ye want to. They kin set as

long as they like by the side of the road an' watch me hoe. That's as

fer as they'll git, fer I'm king on me own ground, an' so long as I mind

me own bizness I defy anyone to meddle with me. You're a trespasser

here to-day, Ikey Dimock, an' the sooner ye hit fer the road the better

fer all consarned."

"Yes, I'm going, Abner Andrews," Isaac angrily replied. "You have

insulted me to-day, and have made a great bluster, but you'll come down

with a flop when you're called upon to pay that thousand dollars you

subscribed for the Orphans' Home."

"Hey, what's that ye'r gittin' off?" Abner demanded. "What bizness is it

of yours, I'd like to know? Why should I flop when I'm asked to pay?"

"Simply because you haven't got it; that's why."

"What'll ye bet?"

"I won't bet."

"No, because ye'r scared. Ye know ye'd lose."

"What's the sense of talking that way, Abner? I know that you were only

bluffing when you offered that thousand dollars, and you can't deny it.

How could you ever make that much on a place like this?"

"By workin' the skin-game, that's how."

"The skin-game! What is that?"

"Don't ye know, Ikey? Now, I skin the ground fer what I git, an' mighty

thin skinnin' it is. But you skin human bein's, 'specially poor

widders."

Dimock waited to hear no more, but, turning angrily away, hastened

across the field, boarded his car and drove furiously off. Abner

watched him until he disappeared around the bend.

"Wasn't he mad, though?" he chuckled. "He got a flea in the ear that

time, all right, ho, ho! It's not fer the situation or fer the sake of

his health he wants this place, that's quite sartin. Dimock's not that

kind. There's somethin' more'n ordinary back of this, an' it's up to me

to find out what it is."

*CHAPTER VII*

*BEATING THE MOVIES*

The next morning Abner worked at his potatoes. He was not fond of this

job, as the weeds were very thick and his temper was none the best. It

was hard, anyway, for him to settle down for any length of time to one

task. He preferred boating or lumbering, with all the excitement and

uncertainty attached to each. But to be penned down in a potato patch

was almost more than he could endure. It might have been different if

the soil had been productive, but after hard toil there was little to

show for all his efforts.

"Might as well be in a chain-gang," he meditated, as he tore at the

weeds. "It's up one row an' down another, hour after hour. I jist feel

wild fer somethin' to turn up. Wish to goodness Ikey Dimock 'ud happen

along now. Mebbe he'd git somethin' to-day he escaped yesterday."

He paused, leaned on his hoe and looked across the field toward the

gravel hill. As he did so his eyes opened wide in amazement, for there

right on his land was a man with a strange looking instrument before

him. He was pointing it in his direction, too. Maybe it was a gatling

gun the fellow had. He had heard about such things. Ikey might have

sent him to take the place by force. A fierce anger surged up in

Abner's heart, and dropping his hoe, he sped to the house and took down

his gun from its rack on the kitchen wall. When Mrs. Andrews asked him

what he was going to do, he merely told her that there was a hawk after

her chickens. Hurrying from the house, he made his way across the

field, clutching his old shot-gun with both hands.

He kept his eyes fixed upon the young man, every instant expecting to

see him either run or show some sign of terror and beg for his life.

But when the intruder merely paused in his work, tipped back his straw

hat a little and faced him without the least shadow of fear, Abner

became puzzled. If the stranger had only run, it would have been a

great lark chasing him across the field, brandishing his gun and

shouting wild words of defiance. But to see the man viewing him so

calmly upset his calculations. He slowed down, and when a few yards

away he stopped and glared savagely.

"Why don't you shoot?" the stranger asked, in a matter-of-fact manner.

"I'm goin' to," was the reply.

"Well, you're a long time about it."

"Ain't ye afraid?"

"Afraid of what?"

"That I'll shoot ye."

"Not with that old gun. It wouldn't shoot a cat, and, besides, I don't

believe it's loaded."

"Want me to try?"

"Sure; go ahead. I don't mind."

"Ye don't!"

"No, not a bit. But hurry up. I'm getting tired waiting."

Abner was now in a fix. He never intended to shoot the intruder, but

merely wished to frighten him away. He did not know what to do, and only

glared harder than ever.

"Why don't you shoot?" the stranger again asked.

"Hang the shootin'," Abner growled, as he thumped the gun down upon the

ground. "De ye think I'm a brute?"

"Well, I wasn't altogether sure at first by the way you acted. I've

often met brutes on four legs which performed in a similar manner, so I

was somewhat puzzled."

"An' wasn't there reason?" Abner demanded. "What bizness have ye comin'

on to my land?"

"What business? Why, my own, of course."

"An' what's that?"

"Don't you know?"

"Surveyin' my place, eh?"

"Sure; what did you ask me for, then?"

"But who sent ye here? Did Ikey Dimock?"

"Ikey Dimock! Let me see," and the young man scratched his head, as if

in perplexity. "Say, I can't recall that name. Who is he? A friend of

yours?"

"A friend of mine! Say that agin an' I'll punch ye'r face."

"Will you?"

"Sure. I won't stand fer any foolin', mind. Ye'r on my place, an'

don't put on any of ye'r high-falutin' airs."

"Maybe two can play at that game of punching faces," and the stranger

smiled as he straightened himself up a bit. "But I don't want to fight

with you. Just let me alone until I get my work finished. If you want a

row, go and fight the men who sent me here. Then you'll have all the

fighting you can attend to."

"Who are they?" Abner queried.

"The members of the Government, to be sure."

"What in blazes have they to do in the matter, I'd like to know?"

"A great deal, as you'll find out. They sent me here, so it's no use to

shoot me, or try to punch my nose. I'm only working under orders, and

don't count."

"But what did they send ye here fer? Tell me that."

"To see how much gravel you have; that's why."

"Gravel! My gravel?"

"Yes. All that hill," and the surveyor motioned to the left.

"An' they want it? What fer?"

"For ballast."

"Ballast!"

"Certainly. The wise ones have been very uneasy of late, and have done

considerable thinking. They have at last concluded that there is too

much gravel right on this part of the earth's surface, and so they've

decided to shift a portion of it to keep the old ship steady."

"Ye don't tell! An' where are they goin' to take it to?"

"Oh, just to the new railroad. They need ballast for that, and this is

extra good stuff."

Abner lifted his old straw hat, and ran his fingers slowly through his

hair. His eyes, which had been staring wide, now gradually contracted

as he looked off toward the gravel hill. A new light was dawning upon

his mind. He was face to face with a problem which he knew would tax

his entire supply of "brains, gall, an' luck."

The surveyor, observing the expression upon his face, surmised its

meaning, and his eyes twinkled.

"Catch on?" he drawled.

"But where do I come in?" Abner questioned.

"Oh, you're in already."

"Like the toad in the swill-pail, it seems to me. Not there by choice.

But what am I to git out of it? That's what I want to know."

"Get out of it! Why, man, you'll be lucky to get out of it alive, same

as the toad."

"I will, eh? An' why?"

"Simply because you've allowed that hill of gravel to remain there to

endanger the world. That's about the first thing they'll tell you, and

they'll put up such a big talk that you'll be glad to pay out your

bottom dollar to help them take the gravel away."

"De ye think I'm a fool?" Abner roared, and again his eyes blazed.

"Not exactly, though you acted like one a few minutes ago. But I

imagine you'll feel like one when that government bunch gets after you.

They're past masters at the art of getting what they want. They will

come here in autos, parade around the place, puff their expensive

cigars, and hand out such talk that you'll feel small enough to crawl

through a rat-hole. Oh, I've seen such cases before, and I know just

what they'll do."

"H'm, I guess ye don't know Abner Andrews, then, not by a jugfull,

skiddy-me-shins, if ye do. There'll be no crawlin', mind ye, to them

big bugs. An' what's more, they'll never set foot on this place without

my consent."

"They won't wait for your consent. They didn't send word, I suppose,

asking if I might make this survey?"

"No, not a line, the skunks."

"Neither will they ask permission to tramp over your land. They'll come

unexpectedly, the same as I have."

"An' they'll go as unexpectedly as they'll come," and Abner stamped upon

the ground. "So will you go, young man. I ain't got nuthin' agin you

personally, but ye represent that bunch of grafters, so out ye go at

once, an' don't ye dare to put ye'r foot upon this place agin without my

permission."

But the surveyor never moved. With his right arm resting lightly on the

theodolite he fixed his eyes steadily upon the farmer.

"Ain't ye goin'?" Abner demanded.

"No."

"Ye ain't! Well, I guess ye'll change ye'r tune, me hearty, before I'm

through with ye."

Suddenly raising the gun by the barrel with both hands, he drew it back

over his left shoulder in a most threatening manner.

"Git," he roared, "or I'll knock out ye'r brains, providin' ye've got

any."

"Go ahead, then," was the quiet reply.

"What! ain't ye afraid?" Abner asked.

"Afraid of what?"

"That I'll kill ye."

"H'm, I wish you would. It would save me from doing it myself. So

hurry up."

Abner's eyes bulged with amazement, and he slowly lowered his gun.

"Say, ye'r not luney, are ye?" he queried.

"Do you think I am?"

"Well, there must be somethin' wrong with a chap who wants to be killed,

that's all."

"So you're not going to knock out my brains after all?"

"Naw, I ain't no murderer."

"Too bad," and the surveyor gave a deep sigh. "It's very

disappointing."

Abner was now completely bewildered, and he knew not what to do. For

once in his life he was unable to make any reply. If the young man had

shown the least sign of fear, or had even argued, it would have been

different. But to see him so calm and unconcerned was what puzzled him.

He was mad, and yet it did no good. The more excited he became, the

cooler seemed the surveyor. What was he to do? He did not wish to

leave the fellow and go back to the house, as that would be an

acknowledgment of defeat.

Happening to glance away to the left, he was much relieved to see Jess

walking across the field carrying a dish of wild strawberries she had

just picked.

"Hi thar, Jess," he called. "Come here. I want ye."

At these words the surveyor turned his head. Seeing the girl

approaching, he suddenly straightened himself up from his listless

attitude, while an expression of interest dawned in his eyes.

Jess was certainly fair to look upon as she drew near to where the two

men were standing. It was little wonder that the surveyor's heart

suddenly thrilled, and his hand touched his hat. Her trim lithe figure

was clad in a simple white dress, open at the throat. Her arms were

bare to the elbows, and her fingers bore the crimson stains of the

strawberries she had recently picked. Beneath her broad-rimmed hat

tresses of wavy dark-brown hair drifted waywardly and temptingly over

her sun-browned neck, cheeks and forehead. Her eyes expressed surprise

as she glanced at the young man, then at her father, and finally at the

grounded gun.

"What's the matter, daddy?" she enquired. "You look dangerous."

"An' I feel dangerous," Abner retorted. "But that's as fer as I kin

git, blamed if it ain't."

"But what are you going to do with that gun?"

"Nuthin', 'cept tote it back to the house."

"What did you bring it here for, then?"

"To scare _that_," and Abner motioned toward the surveyor.

Jess looked at the young man and detected an expression of amusement in

his eyes, although his face remained perfectly grave.

"What did you want to scare him for, daddy?"

"'Cause he's trespassin', that's why. He wants to steal our place."

"Steal our place!" Jess repeated in astonishment.

"Yes, that's jist it. He wants it fer a bunch of government grafters,

an' when I threatened to shoot him or brain him he up an' says that he

wants to be killed. Now, what de ye make of that?"

A new light of animation now beamed in Jess' eyes, and she advanced a

step toward the surveyor. Here was a case which demanded her immediate

attention, and she felt much elated.

"Why do you want to be killed?" she asked.

"Simply because there is no reason why I should live," was the reply.

"Oh, nonsense," and Jess stamped her right foot lightly upon the ground.

"You should not utter such words. Why, a man is a coward who wants to

die. It proves that he is afraid to live. Isn't that the truth?"

"Perhaps it is. But that's the way I feel, anyway."

"You are looking at things in a wrong light," Jess continued. "You need

a new outlook on life, a strong, noble view. That is what will lift you

out of the depths of despair. You should read 'Above the Clouds.' It

is just the book you need, and I shall gladly let you have my copy."

"Give it to him, Jess," Abner encouraged. "Pile on the Social Service

dope. That'll fix him, all right."

"You are too self-centred," Jess went on. "You should not let your

thoughts dwell on your own troubles, but think of others and try to help

them."

"Good advice, young man," Abner chuckled. "Fergit ye'r worries, like a

lobster in bilin' water. Go on, Jess; ye'r doin' fine."

But Jess did not go on. A sudden embarrassment seized her, caused by

the peculiar look she observed in the surveyor's eyes. It was an

expression, so she thought, of mingled surprise and amusement. What

must he be thinking of her? she asked herself. Her enthusiasm had

carried her away. Never before had she spoken to a strange man in such

a manner. A deep flush mantled her cheeks, and she glanced nervously

around as if anxious to hurry away.

"Surely you're not going to leave," the young man remarked. "I am

enjoying myself immensely."

"You are!" It was all Jess could say.

"Certainly. I haven't enjoyed myself so much for a long time. To be

held up at the point of a gun; threatened to be brained, and then to

listen to such words of wisdom all in one day is most unusual."

"Better'n a movie-show, skiddy-me-shins if it ain't," Abner growled.

For a few seconds there was a dead silence. Then the humor of the

situation dawned upon Jess, and a sunny smile wreathed her face and her

eyes danced with merriment. The surveyor's laugh, on the other hand,

was like a pigmy explosion. He evidently had been controlling himself

with the greatest effort, and this outburst was a welcome relief to his

pent-up feelings. Jess, too, laughed heartily now, while Abner's face

was twisted into a broad grin, as he thumped the stock of his gun

several times upon the ground.

"Ho ho!" he roared. "This is a movin'-picture show, all right. Gun,

villain, an' gal all here. Why, it beats the movies all holler."

Then he stepped up to the surveyor, and held out his hand.

"Say, young feller," he began, "put it thar. Ye'r all right, an' I

guess ye kin go ahead with ye'r surveyin'. I do sartinly like the cut of

ye'r jib. Drop around to the house some evenin' an' have a smoke."

"Not 'Above the Clouds,' but in them; is that it?" he asked, turning to

Jess.

"Whichever you prefer," was the reply. "Or you may have both, if you

wish," she added as an afterthought.

The surveyor watched the father and daughter as they left him and walked

slowly across the field. He seemed to be in no hurry to go on with his

work, but stood there until the two had disappeared within the house.

"And so that is the noted Abner Andrews, is it?" he mused. "And I was

told that he wouldn't let me survey his gravel hill. I've won the bet,

all right. He certainly is a queer cuss, and I thought at one time that

I wouldn't leave this place alive. How in heaven's name does he happen

to have a daughter like that? Good Lord, what a girl!"

*CHAPTER VIII*

*THE DUMP SCHEME*

"I wonder what the critter wants now."

"Who is it from?" Mrs. Andrews asked, as she paused in her work of

beating an egg for one of her special company cakes.

For a few minutes Abner studied the letter he was holding in his hand,

and paid no attention to his wife's question. He read it through again

very carefully, and when he finished he gave a grunt of disgust.

"It must be serious if it makes you feel like that," Mrs. Andrews

ventured.

"Hey, what's that?" Abner demanded. "Was ye speakin', Tildy?"

"Yes, I was. But what's the use of my speaking, when you're as deaf as

a post. I was merely asking you who's the letter from?"

"Why, it's from Lawyer Rackshaw. I thought I told ye."

"What does he want?"

"He says he wants to see me on very important bizness. But I can't take

the time to go to town this fine weather jist to see him. I've got to

git to work hayin'."

"But you are going to town, anyway, in the morning, daddy," Jess

reminded, looking up from the apples she was peeling.

"I am, eh? An' what for, I'd like to know?"

"Belle is coming on the morning train, and you must meet her."

"Oh, Lord!" Abner groaned. "I fergot all about her. Say, Jess, you take

Jerry an' go fer her."

"I'm afraid I can't, daddy. There is so much work I have to do in the

morning that I must stay at home. And, besides, you have to see Lawyer

Rackshaw."

"So I have, confound it! But how'll I know the gal when I see her, tell

me that?"

"Oh, you'll have no trouble. She has beautiful auburn hair."

"Red hair! Oh, my!" and Abner spread out his hands in dismay. "What

next? Pink eyes?"

"No, no," and Jess laughed. "Not pink eyes, but sparkling dark ones,

animated face, and such beautiful white teeth."

"Whew! I'll know the red hair, sparklin' eyes, an' animated face, all

right, won't I, Tildy? I'll be Abner-on-the-spot as fer as they're

consarned. But white teeth! How'll I know they're white? Will I have

to ask her to open her mouth good an' wide so's I kin see?"

"I guess that won't be necessary," Jess laughingly replied. "As soon as

Belle opens her mouth to speak, which she does very often, you will see

her teeth, all right. You will know her anyway, for she is sure to be

well dressed, and not likely she will be wearing any hat. It's a fad of

hers."

"No hat! Gee whittaker! I wish you'd do the same, Jess; it'd save a

lot of money."

Abner rose to his feet, picked up his hat, and reached for his pipe.

"I'm goin' over to see Lost Tribes, Tildy," he announced. "I want to

know how Widder Denton is makin' out with her kids. Anything ye want me

to do before I go?"

"Yes, you can bring in a pail of water and some wood. You might as well

fasten up the chicken-coops, as I am too busy. I wish you'd set a trap,

for there was a skunk around last night."

"H'm, is that so? Well, I guess it's the bear-trap I'd better set.

There'll be more skunks around this place before long, if I'm not

mistaken, an' two-legged ones at that. There was one here yesterday,

but I soon cleared him out."

"Who was that?" Mrs. Andrews sharply asked. "What in the world were you

up to?"

"It was Ikey Dimock. He was the skunk. He wants to buy our farm fer a

summer place. What de ye think o' that?"

Abner slipped out of the house before his wife could recover from her

astonishment to question him further.

"I've given Tildy a jolt," he chuckled, as he moved across the field

toward Zeb's house. "I wonder what she'd think of the Dimocks livin'

here? Mebbe it'll make her consider the old place is of some value

after all."

Abner soon returned, harnessed Jerry and drove into town. He was

hitching his horse to the post near the station-house when the agent

appeared around the corner of the building.

"Mornin', Sam," he accosted. "How's the train?"

"On time," was the reply. "Expecting anyone?"

Abner gave the rope a final yank, and then turned toward the agent.

"Say, Sam," he began, "will ye do me a favor?"

"What is it?"

"Well, ye see, I'm expectin' company on the train this mornin', an' as

you're mighty slick with women folks I thought mebbe ye'd meet her, in

case I don't git back in time."

"Meet who?" Sam demanded in surprise.

"Why, Belle Rivers, of course. Didn't I tell ye? She's the 'torney

General's gal, an' she's comin' on a visit to our place. I'm here to

meet her, but if you'd do it fer me, break the ice, so to speak, I'd

consider it a great favor."

Sam was all alert now, and keen with interest. The Attorney General

Rivers' daughter! What a piece of news he would have for the reporter

of _The Live Wire_ when he made his regular afternoon call. The whole

town would be agog at the news, and he mentally pictured the excitement

of Mrs. Dimock and Mrs. Rackshaw when they heard it.

"Will ye do it, Sam?" Abner asked.

"Sure, I shall be only too delighted. But how shall I know her?"

"Oh, ye'll have no trouble. Let me see," and Abner scratched the back

of his head. "Jess gave me a full description. She's got hair like

fire; eyes like diamonds; cheeks like roses; and teeth like the white of

an egg; dresses like one of the fashion picters, an' doesn't wear any

hat."

"Gee whiz!" Sam exclaimed. "If she's all that she must be worth looking

at. And, say, Mr. Andrews, I didn't know you were so poetical."

"Poetical! What de ye mean?"

"Why, the way you described Miss Rivers. I never heard you use such

language before."

"Oh, that ain't nuthin' to what I kin do. Ye should hear me when Bill

Kincaid's cows break into my oats. Then ye'd know somethin' about my

command of the English language."

"I guess there wouldn't be much poetry about such language, would

there?" Sam smilingly bantered. "A poet, for instance, needs to be

inspired, so I understand."

"An' de ye think I'm not inspired when I'm chasin' them cows? Tildy

says I am, an' I guess the cows do, too, by the way they run. I know I

feel inspired, anyway, an' I'm all het up an' excited fer the rest of

the day. That's the way poets look when they're inspired, accordin' to

the picters I've seen of 'em. But, there, I must be off. Ye'll look

after that gal, Sam, like a good feller, won't ye? Show her my waggon

there, an' tell her she kin study the sights of the town while she

waits. If she's nervous, homesick, or anythin' like that, ye might take

her into the waitin'-room. I'll make it all right with ye, Sam. Don't

fergit what she looks like, 'specially the red hair."

Lawyer Rackshaw was seated at his office desk as Abner entered. He rose

briskly to his feet, and grasped the farmer by the hand.

"I've just come in," he told him, "and am enjoying my usual morning

smoke. Sit right down and have a cigar."

"Another ten-center, eh?" Abner queried, as he sat down, crossed his

legs, bit off the end of the Havana, and struck a match.

"Yes, Mr. Andrews, it's the real thing, all right. I was quite certain

you would call to-day, and so had it ready. You received my letter?"

"Sure; that's why I'm here. I allus hustle when I git a letter from a

lawyer jist the same as I do when a hen hollers, fer then I know a

hawk's after her. It's a sure sign there's somethin' important astir."

A peculiar smile lurked in the lawyer's eyes as he reached out and

picked up a paper lying upon the desk.

"I hope this is not a case of the hen and the hawk," he replied, as he

tilted back in his chair and bent his eyes on the paper.

"Hope not," Abner sighed, as he blew forth a great cloud of smoke.

"But, then, one kin never tell."

"This has merely to do with the new Orphan Home," the lawyer explained,

"and no matter what tricks there might be in other matters, there must

be nothing shady in a transaction where poor helpless children are

concerned."

"Ye're sartinly right," Abner assented. "When it comes to the care of

poor little orphans everythin' must be squared with the great Golden

Rule, as old Parson Shaw used to say. How's the Home gittin' along,

anyway?"

"First rate. It's in connection with that I wish to speak to you

to-day."

"I thought so. Is the buildin' up yit?"

"Oh, no. It's been such a short time since the meeting that we've been

able to do little more than settle upon a suitable situation for the

institution. We have given considerable thought to the matter, and are

most fortunate in obtaining a plot of ground at a very reasonable cost."

"Cost!" Abner exclaimed in astonishment. "Will it cost anythin' fer a

piece of ground fer the Home? Why, there's lots of idle land in this

town."

"But none so suitable as the one we have settled upon. And it is

reasonable, too, considering the many advantages connected with it, such

as the fine view, and the distance from private dwellings. It will cost

us only one thousand dollars for such a situation as that."

"One thousand dollars!" Abner almost leaped out of his chair. "Good

Lord! Has this town come to that, when it wants one thousand dollars

fer a piece of ground fer an Orphan Home! Where is this wonderful spot,

I'd like to know, an' who owns it?"

"It lies just outside of the town, near the creek, and is a part of the

land owned by Mr. Henry Whittles."

"What! The dump?"

"Well, you see, it's not all dump, as there is more land surrounding it

which will make an excellent playground for the children."

"An' Hen Whittles wants one thousand dollars fer that?"

"He says he is willing to let it go at that sum, considering what it is

to be used for."

"He is sartinly generous. An' so I s'pose ye want the money I offered

to pay fer it, eh?"

"Yes, if you can find it convenient to let us have it now. As soon as

we get the matter of the land settled we can rush the building along."

This was more than Abner could stand. His pent-up wrath and righteous

indignation could be controlled no longer. Bounding from his seat, he

towered above the legal light of Glucom. He thrust out his big right

hand toward the lawyer's face, forgetting in his excitement that the

fingers of that hand clutched the partly smoked cigar. He hardly

realized what he was doing. But the lawyer did, and when the hot end of

the cigar came into sudden contact with the tip of his nose, he emitted

a yell of pain and lurched violently back in an effort to escape the

onslaught. The result was most disastrous, for the sudden recoil sent

swivel-chair and occupant backwards upon the floor.

With as much dignity as possible the lawyer picked himself up, righted

the chair, and sat down again. He was mad, and longed to turn his sharp

tongue upon the cause of the disaster. But he was shrewd enough to

control his temper, and pretend to make light of the mishap. He would

get more than even in due time. But the end of his nose was smarting

painfully, and he could not keep his fingers away from the injured

member.

Abner was at first surprised at the lawyer's sudden collapse. Then a

smile lightened his face.

"De ye do that every day?" he asked.

"Do what?"

"Cut up sich capers. Regular mornin' exercise, I s'pose."

"Certainly not. Do you think I'm accustomed to having a hot cigar

dashed into my nose every morning?"

"Well, it's not altogether likely, oh, no. But judgin' by the color of

ye'r nose I'd say it's been affected by somethin' more fiery than a hot

ten-cent cigar."

"Ye do, eh?" The lawyer was visibly irritated now.

"I sure do. But that was an inward application, while mine was outward.

It was merely a touch of Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint, an' when an' where

he touches there's ginerally somethin' doin' which ain't allus pleasant

to the feelin's, either."

"I hope your touch is not always as hot as the one you just applied to

my nose, anyway," the lawyer replied.

"Oh, it's a dam sight hotter sometimes, let me tell ye that, 'specially

when there's somethin' crooked afoot."

"What are you driving at?"

"What am I drivin' at? Why, at that Orphan Home affair. It jist twists

me all to pieces when I think of Hen Whittles wantin' one thousand

dollars fer that dump of his, an' him one of the richest men in Glucom,

at that."

"But surely you don't expect him to give it for nothing, do you?" the

lawyer queried.

"An' why not? It's worth nuthin', an' what's more, Hen Whittles should

be fined fer keepin' sich a disgraceful place so near town. Every time

I drive past that spot I have to hold me nose, the smell is so bad. An'

sich a mess of stuff! Tin cans, dead cats an' dogs, an' every blamed

thing that isn't of any use is dumped there. It'd take more'n a

thousand dollars to clean it up. The Board of Health should git after

Hen an' make him squirm like an angle-worm on a hook."

"But what are we going to do about it?" the lawyer asked, now greatly

annoyed.

"Do about it?" Abner roared, rising to his feet. "Why, git a decent

place, of course. There's lots of land in town fer that Home without

puttin' it on top of a stinkin' dump."

"But suppose we can't get any other place?"

"Then come to Ash Pint. If the people of this town are as mean as all

that, I'll give 'em all the land they want fer the Home. An' it'll be

clean land, too, with a great view, plenty of fresh air, an' the river

right near where the youngsters kin swim. That's all I've got to say."

Abner picked up his hat and started for the door when the lawyer

detained him.

"Surely you're not going to back down," he coolly remarked.

"Back down! On what?"

"On the offer you made, that is, the money you promised to give for the

Home."

"Back down! No! Did ye ever hear of Abner Andrews backin' down? I'm

jist buckin' up, that's what I'm doin'. I'm not goin' to give a red

cent fer Hen Whittles' stinkin' dump, so you an' the rest of the gang

kin chew on that fer a while."

*CHAPTER IX*

*A SLIP OF A GAL*

When Abner had closed the door behind him, he stood in the middle of the

sidewalk and looked at his watch. He had half an hour to spare before

the arrival of the train, and that would allow him plenty of time to

visit the dump, and give it a thorough inspection. He was mad, and to

look again upon the mass of rubbish collected there would afford him

considerable satisfaction.

It took him but ten minutes to reach the place. Here he stopped and

viewed the locality. He longed to have Henry Whittles by his side that

he might give expression to the feeling of indignation which was

agitating his soul. But not a person could he behold. It was a most

unsavoury spot, and the only living creatures there were several crows

feasting upon some carrion not far off.

"An' so this is where they want to build the Home!" he growled. "Good

Lord! what a place! Why, it's nuthin' more'n the Toefat of the Bible,

which I've heard old Parson Shaw speak about. He said it was the place

where them ancient divils sacrificed their children to their god Mulick.

But I guess we've got jist as big divils now as they had then, an' mebbe

a darn sight bigger. Them old fellers didn't know any better. It was a

part of their religion, so I understand. But these modern cusses want

to sacrifice poor little orphan kids in a hole like this, when they know

better, an' have lots of other land where they kin build that Home. An'

they call it 'charity.' Holy Smoke! It makes me mad. I want to hit

somebody, an' I'd like that somebody to be Hen Whittles. An' him

pertendin' to be a Christian. Bah!"

So intense were Abner's feelings that he forgot all about the train. He

could think only of the meanness of Henry Whittles and those who were in

league with him. Not a cent of money would he give, so he vowed, if

they persisted in placing the Home in such a vile place. He knew that

it could be levelled off, and cleaned up to a certain extent. But that

would take much of the money needed for the erection of the building.

Then he thought of Lawyer Rackshaw and his contemptible dealings with

Widow Denton. He was glad that his nose had been scorched, and that he

had tumbled backwards upon the floor.

"Pity he hadn't broken his neck," he muttered. "This town could well do

without sich a thing as that."

Abner was aroused from his reverie by the screech of the train as it

approached a crossing about half a mile from the station. He glanced at

his watch in astonishment, and then hurried back through the town.

"I had no idea it was train time," he mused. "But I guess Sam'll look

after the gal all right. Not bein' there will save me a lot of fussin'.

Sam likes that kind of thing, 'specially when a pretty gal's consarned."

Abner was about one hundred yards from the station when he saw a horse,

drawing an express waggon, coming toward him. As it approached, he

noticed that a woman held the reins, and that she was bareheaded. In a

twinkling the truth flashed upon him, and he paused, uncertain what to

do. He knew that it was Belle Rivers driving Jerry at an unusually fast

clip. She was using the whip, too, and it was quite evident that Jerry

was receiving the surprise of his life.

At first Abner was astonished. Then he grew indignant, and sprang into

the middle of the street as Jerry drew near. He reached out to grasp

the horse by the bridle, but as he did so the fair driver brought the

whip stingingly down upon his head. With a roar Abner made for the

waggon, but was met with another and yet another well-aimed blow.

This excitement, combined with the flourishing of the whip, was more

than Jerry could stand. With lowered head, he sped along the street,

leaving a huge cloud of dust in his wake. Abner had just time to leap

and seize the end of the express as it dashed by, and to pull himself

partly aboard. He sprawled across the tailboard, holding on by his

elbows, and balancing himself upon his stomach, with his feet beating a

tattoo upon the ground. He tried to clutch at something, but the rattle

of the waggon, and the steady rain of blows upon his head and shoulders,

prevented him from making any progress. And there he hung, speechless

and helpless.

The people on the main street of Glucom were greatly excited at the

strange spectacle they beheld. They could only stand and stare, unable

to do anything. But one of the few policemen of which the town boasted

happened to be coming along that very moment, and sprang into the middle

of the street to intercept what he believed was a runaway horse. The

driver saw him and, with considerable difficulty, reined up Jerry by his

side.

"Arrest that man," she ordered, turning around and pointing to Abner,

who had just tumbled off the waggon.

"Arrest her," Abner shouted, struggling unsteadily to his feet.

"Why, what's the meaning of all this, Mr. Andrews?" the policeman

enquired.

"She stole my hoss an' waggon, an' beat me black an' blue; that's what's

the matter."

A startled expression suddenly overspread Belle Rivers' face, and she

dropped the reins upon her lap.

"Mr. Andrews!" It was all she could say, as her eyes swiftly scanned

Abner's unshaven face, rough, dust-covered clothes, and coarse

unblackened boots.

"Yes, it's Abner Andrews, of Ash Pint," he chuckled, noting the girl's

embarrassment.

"But I didn't know, that is, I didn't expect----" the girl stammered.

"Oh, no, ye didn't know him. Expected to find him a reg'lar country

gentleman, eh? With tan shoes, pants all creased down in front, big

panyma hat, an' smokin' a ten-cent cigar."

The girl's cheeks were scarlet as she listened to this charge, which she

knew was absolutely true. Then the humor of the situation dawned upon

her, and a smile wreathed her face.

"Will you forgive me, Mr. Andrews?" she asked. "I have been cruelly

rude."

"But what about me head and shoulders?" Abner queried. "Will ye'r sweet

apology cure the lumps ye made with that confounded whip?"

"Perhaps not, but when we get home I shall attend to your bruises with

my own hands."

"Ye'll only make 'em worse," Abner growled.

"Say, Mr. Andrews," the policeman interposed, "I've a good mind to

arrest you."

"Arrest me! Why?"

"As an idiot."

"Idiot!" Abner was staring hard now at the guardian of the law.

"Yes, as an idiot. You must surely be one, or you'd jump at the chance

of having your head and shoulders attended to by the likes of her. I

wish it had been me she threshed."

This view of the situation appealed to Abner, and he squinted an eye at

the policeman.

"I see ye'r pint, Tom, an' it's a good one. Guess I'd better hustle

home, fer I do feel mighty sore."

Scrambling up over the wheel, he flopped himself down by Belle's side

and picked up the reins.

"Well, s'long, Tom. Much obliged fer ye'r help an' advice. Will see ye

later. Gid-dap, Jerry."

After they had fairly started on the homeward way, Abner pulled out his

pipe and tobacco.

"De ye mind smokin'?" he asked.

"No, not at all," the girl replied. "I enjoy the smell of tobacco."

"That's good. Me nerves are a bit upsot to-day, an' terbaccer allus

steadies 'em."

"I am afraid that I am the cause of your trouble, Mr. Andrews. I had no

idea that it was you I was whipping, but thought it was a scoundrel

wishing to harm me."

"Ye didn't know me, eh? Well, where in the name of all creation was ye

goin' with Jerry?"

"Merely for a drive. I didn't want to sit in the waggon with the young

men at the station staring at me, so I thought I would drive around for

a while until you came back. That was all."

"H'm, so that was the way of it, eh? But I do admire ye'r pluck. The

way ye walloped me was sartinly wonderful, an' you only a slip of a gal

at that."

"I'm used to taking care of myself, Mr. Andrews. In fact, I like an

adventure once in a while, for it adds a little spice to life."

"Sure, sure, ye'r right, Miss. Guess we must be somethin' alike as

fer's that's consarned."

"And you are fond of adventure, too; of real exciting experiences?" the

girl eagerly asked.

"Yes; it's meat an' drink to me."

"But you don't find much adventure on a quiet farm, do you?"

"Adventure! Well, I guess ye don't know Ash Pint yit. Why, my old farm

is so light that I have to keep it anchored down fer fear it'll go up

like a balloon."

"Oh!"

"Yep; that's Gospel truth. G'long, Jerry. Then, there's a gravel hill

on my place which makes the earth top heavy, an' so the Government is

goin' to take it away."

"You don't say so! Why, Jess never told me anything about such things."

"Oh, she's used to 'em. Anyway, she's so sot on Social Service that she

can't come down to common things. Say, de you swaller all that stuff?"

"What stuff?"

"Social Service gas, an' what it'll do fer the world, sich as elevatin'

pigs into hogs an' sich like."

"I try to be interested," and Belle gave a deep sigh. "Jess is so

wrapped up in her work that I do all I can to help her. But I ani

afraid that I'm too light-headed for such things."

"Light-headed, be fiddled," Abner growled. "Ye may be light-headed as

fer as the color of ye'r hair goes, but no further, skiddy-me-shins if

ye are. Ye'r all right, an' I'm mighty glad ye'r not luney over that

Social Service bizness."

"You are!"

"'Deed I am, an' I wish to goodness that Jess 'ud git sich nonsense

knocked out of her head."

"But it doesn't hurt her, does it?" Belle queried. "I don't believe

anything could change Jess from the sweet, jolly girl that she always

is."

"Oh, no, Jess is all right that way. But, ye see, she wants to go away

to some big city instead of stayin' at home where there's a darn sight

of elevatin' to be done. That's what riles me."

"Oh, I see," Belle meditatively replied. "You wish her to remain with

you?"

"That's jist it, Miss. There's only me an' Tildy, an' it needs someone

to brighten up the house a bit. I tell ye our house doesn't allus have

a heavenly atmosphere when we're alone, not by a jugful. The best wheel

an' axle will git hot an' make an unholy noise if they run too long

together without bein' greased. I guess most married folks are that

way."

"I understand," and Belle smiled. "Jess acts as a go-between to make

affairs run smoothly.

"Yep, that's jist it. She's the grease, an' she sartinly works wonders

in stoppin' the creakin' in our house. That's why I want her to stay

with us."

"Have you spoken to Jess about it?" Belle asked.

"Sure. Had a long talk with her."

"And what did she say?"

"Said there wasn't enough to do at home; that she needed more sailin'

room. I wish to goodness she'd lower her sail, an' drop anchor at Ash

Pint. It 'ud make all the difference in the world to me an' Tildy."

"Then you must see that she does," was the emphatic reply.

"Does what? Lower her sail and drop anchor at home?"

"Yes."

"But how kin I do it?"