id I, "but I have a good ear, and I used to be able to foot it
in my day!"

"So," he said, "then you shall have a bite and a sup for that. I had
thought you were only an old penny-worth-o'-snuff money-grabber!"

And along with the provisions he fetched in his fiddle, and played me
nearly out of my reason, for two mortal hours. Like nothing human it
was, and I, all the time with my toes pressed to my ill-fitting sawed
panel, fearful, that it would fall outward and reveal the work on which
I had been engaged. I declare I would rather have supped with Elsie
out of the spoon tied to the oven rake.

CHAPTER XXVII

HARRIET CAW ON CLERICAL CELIBACY

(_Narrative continued by Joe Yarrow, Junior_)

I have put my father's writing, just as it came from his hand, into
this place. It will give a better idea of the uncertain condition of
those two, sequestrated underground, than any mere description. I will
now go on to tell how things were going at Breckonside.

Our house in the village had a name. It was called "The Mount," but
for the most part of people it was "Yarrow's." Just "Yarrow's." The
house had, of course, a different entrance from the shop, and the
retail shop again was quite distinct from the wholesale business. For
most of the small dealers in the villages between Breckonside and
Longtown, besides many even toward the bigger towns of East Dene and
Thorsby, were dependent on my father for their supplies. You see, he
had his finger upon the state of everybody's purse, and could give
longer credit, and in a more human way, than the great firms who
depended upon their yearly turnover, and must have their money every
three months.

Still, on the whole, I know no man who was more generally respected
than my father. He was essentially a business man, but he mixed much
kindness therewith. To find him had been my continual desire. Along
with Peter Kemp and Davie Elshiner, both apt at the search of the
woods, I had explored every ruin within a distance of five miles of
Breckonside. We discovered nothing. No second jackdaw, trailing an
extra tail feather, came within reach of Peter's gun. Indeed, my
father was otherwise employed than in bird catching. Events were
hastening fast along in that underground tunnel which had been
discovered and utilized by Mad Jeremy Orrin and his master, Hobby
Stennis.

About this time Mr. Ablethorpe came pretty often to see us. He liked,
I think, to explain his vie