it was. The horse was never cut out for a saddle horse; I'm so stiff
I don't believe I can move to-morrow. Where's the eats?"

"Here. I'll let it down in a moment," answered Betty, tying a string
to the parcel. "Sorry it isn't more, Bob, but the larder's getting
low again."

Bob untied the can and cracker box she lowered to him, and Betty
pulled in the string to be preserved for future use.

"Thanks, awfully," said Bob. "You're a brick, Betty. And, say, what
do you think I heard over in Trowbridge?"

"Don't talk so loud!" cautioned Betty. "What, Bob?"

"Why, the poorhouse farm is this side of the town," said Bob,
munching a cracker with liveliest manifestations of appreciation.
"Coming back to-night--that's what made me late--Jim Turner, who's
poormaster now, called me in. Said he had something to tell me. It
seems there was a queer old duffer spent one night there a while back
--Jim thought it must have been a month ago. He has a secondhand
bookshop in Washington, and he came to the poorhouse to look at some
old books they have there--thought they might be valuable. They
opened all the records to him, and Jim says he was quite interested
when he came to my mother's name. Asked a lot of questions about her
and wanted to see me. Jim said he was as queer as could be, and all
they could get out of him was that maybe he could tell me something
to interest me. He wouldn't give any of the poorhouse authorities an
inkling of what he knew, and insisted that he'd have to see me first."