longer
secrets, what had Seth Atkins to conceal?

Brown thought and guessed and surmised, but guesses and surmises were
fruitless. He finished his dishwashing and began another of the loathed
housekeeping tasks, that of rummaging the pantry and seeing what
eatables were available for his luncheon and the evening meal.

He spread the various odds and ends on the kitchen table, preparatory to
taking account of stock. A part of a slab of bacon, a salt codfish, some
cold clam fritters, a few molasses cookies, and half a loaf of bread. He
had gotten thus far in the inventory when a shadow darkened the doorway.
He turned and saw Mrs. Bascom, the bungalow housekeeper.

"Good mornin'," said Mrs. Bascom.

Brown answered coldly. Why on earth was it always his luck to be present
when these female nuisances made their appearance? And why couldn't
they let him alone, just as he had determined to let them alone--in the
future? Of course he was glad that the caller was not Miss Graham, but
this one was bad enough.

"Morning," he grunted, and took another dish, this one containing a
section of dry and ancient cake, Seth's manufacture, from the pantry.

"What you doin'? Gettin' breakfast this time of day?" asked the
housekeeper, entering the kitchen. She had a small bowl in her hand.

"No," replied Brown.

"Dinner, then? Pretty early for that, ain't it?"

"I am not getting either breakfast or dinner--or supper, madam," replied
the helper, with emphasis. "Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Well, I don't know but there is. I come over hopin' you might. How's
the stings?"

"The what?"

"The wasp bites."

"They're all, right, thank you."

"You're welcome, I'm sure. Did you put the cold mud on 'em, same as I
told you to?"

"No. . . . What was it you wanted?"

Mrs. Bascom looked about for a seat. The rocker was at the opposite side
of the room, and the other chair contained a garment belonging to Mr.
Atkins, one which that gentleman, with characteristic disregard of the
conventionalities, had discarded before leaving the kitchen and had
forgotten to take with him. The lady picked up the garment, looked at
it, and sat down in the chair.

"Your boss is to bed, I s'pose likely?" she asked.

"You mean Mr. Atkins? I suppose likely he is."

"Um. I judged he was by"--with a glance at the garment which she still
held--"the looks of things. What in the world ARE you doin'--cleanin'
house?"

The young man sighed wearily.