Mrs. Williamson. "The poor boy had a real hard time when he went
to school, Master. The other children were always casting things
up to him and calling him names."

"Oh, I daresay they tormented him a lot," admitted her husband.
"He's a great hand at the fiddle and likes company. He goes to
the harbour a good deal. But they say he takes sulky spells when
he hasn't a word to throw to a dog. 'Twouldn't be any wonder,
living with the Gordons. They're all as queer as Dick's
hat-band."

"Father, you shouldn't talk so about your neighbours," said his
wife rebukingly.

"Well now, Mother, you know they are, if you'd only speak up
honest. But you're like old Aunt Nancy Scott, you never say
anything uncharitable except in the way of business. You know
the Gordons ain't like other people and never were and never will
be. They're about the only queer folks we have in Lindsay,
Master, except old Peter Cook, who keeps twenty-five cats. Lord,
Master, think of it! What chanct would a poor mouse have? None
of the rest of us are queer, leastwise, we hain't found it out if
we are. But, then, we're mighty uninteresting, I'm bound to
admit that."

"Where do the Gordons live?" asked Eric, who had grown used to
holding fast to a given point of inquiry through all the
bewildering mazes of old Robert's conversation.

"Away up yander, half a mile in from Radnor road, with a thick