Front matter

BY

H. A. CODY

AUTHOR OF "THE FRONTIERSMAN," "THE LONG PATROL," "IF ANY MAN SIN," "THE FOURTH WATCH," "THE UNKNOWN WRESTLER," ETC.

MCCLELLAND & STEWART PUBLISHERS : : : TORONTO

Copyright, 1919, By George H. Doran Company

Printed in the United States of America

To the Various Tribes of Zeb And The Wandering Spirits of Abner This Book is Affectionately Dedicated.

"Dear Sir,—Your letter come to han',

Requestin' me to please be funny;

But I ain't made upon a plan

That knows wut's comin', gall or honey."

THE BIGLOW PAPERS, No. X

CONTENTS

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 Cæsar, 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."