seeing it."

"You wouldn't see much but thick smoke," rejoined Mr. Gordon. "I've
some pictures of burning wells I'll show you when I can get them out.
Nothing but huge columns of heavy black smoke that smudges up the
landscape."

"Like the lamp that smoked one night when Mrs. Peabody turned it down
too low--remember, Bob?" suggested Betty. "Next morning everything in
the room was peppered with greasy soot."

"Look ahead, and you'll see the Watterby farm--'place,' in the
vernacular of the countryside," announced Mr. Gordon. "Unlike the
Eastern farms, very few homes are named. There's Grandma Watterby
watching for us."

Bob and Betty looked with interest. They saw a gaunt, plain house,
two stories in height, without window blinds or porch of any sort,
and if ever painted now so weather-beaten that the original color was
indistinguishable. A few flowers bloomed around the doorstep but
there was no attempt at a lawn. A huddle of buildings back of the
house evidently made up the barns and out-houses, and chickens
stalked at will in the roadside.

These fled, squawking, when Mr. Gordon ran the car into the ditch and
an old woman hobbled out to greet him.

"Well, Grandma," he called cheerily, raising his voice, for she was
slightly deaf, "I've brought you two young folks bag and baggage,
just as I promised. I suspect they've brought appetites with them,
too."

"Glad to see you," said the old woman, putting out a gnarled hand.
Her eyes were bright and clear as a bird's, and she had a quick,
darting way of glancing at one that was like a bird, too. "Emma's got
the supper on," she announced. "She's frying chicken."

"I'll go in and tell Mrs. Watterby that she may count on me,"
declared Mr. Gordon jovially, as Bob jumped down and helped Betty
out. "I never miss a chance to eat fried chicken, never. I wonder if
it will be fried in oil?"

"Emma uses lard," said Grandma Watterby placidly.

CHAPTER IX

OLD INDIAN LORE

Mr. Gordon stayed over night, but was off early in the morning. Bob
and Betty watched his rickety car out of sight, and then, determined
to keep busy and happy, set out to explore the Watterby farm.

The family, they had discovered at supper the night before, consisted
of Grandma Watterby, her son Will, a man of about forty-five, and the
daughter-in-law, Emma, a tall, silent woman with a wrinkled, leathery
skin, a harsh voice, and the kindest heart in the world. An Indian
helped Mr. Watterby