crawny children revived the recollection.

"At last, on a certain autumn day, old Peter Creed turned up here at the
Turner place. I imagine Mrs. Turner knew what was in store for her when
his rusty buggy came in sight around the corner of the barn. At any
rate, she made no protest, and listened meekly to his curt statement
that he held an overdue mortgage, with plenty of back interest owing,
and it was time for her to go. She went. Neither she nor anyone else
doubted Creed's rights in the matter, and, after all, I believe it got a
better home for her somewhere in the long run."

I paused here in my narration to draw breath and readjust my leg, which
had become cramped. There was a general readjustment and shifting of
position, with some levity. It was darker now. The rafters above us were
invisible, and the faces about me looked oddly white against the shadowy
background. After a moment or two of delay I cleared my throat sharply
and continued.

"Old Creed came thus into possession of this place, just as he had come
to own a dozen others in the county. He usually lived on one until he
was able to sell it at a good profit over his investment; so he settled
down in the Turner house, and kept old Ike because he worked for little
or nothing. But he seemed to have a hard time finding a purchaser.

"It must have been about a year later when an unexpected thing happened.
Creed had come out here to the barn to lock up--he always did that
himself--when he noticed something unusual about the haymow--this
haymow--which stood then about six feet above the barn floor. He looked
closer through the dusk, and saw a pair of boots; went nearer, and found
that they were fitted to a pair of human legs whose owner was sound
asleep in his hay. Creed picked up a short stick and beat on one boot.

"'Get out of here,' he said, 'or I'll have you locked up.' The sleeper
woke in slow fashion, sat up, grinned, and said:

"'Hello, Peter Creed.' It was Ashley Turner, beyond question. Creed
stepped back a pace or two and seemed at a loss for words. An object
slipped from Turner's pocket as he moved, slid along the hay, and fell
to the barn floor. It was a half-filled whisky-flask.

"No one knows full details of the conversation that ensued, of course.
Such little as I am able to tell you of what was said and done comes
through old Ike, who watched from a safe distance outside the barn,
ready to act at a moment's notice as best suited his own saf